La Galatea

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

The book cover was modified by the Transcriber and added to the public domain.

The Table of Contents was added by the Transcriber.

The spelling of Spanish names and places mentioned in the text has been adjusted to the rules set by the Academia Real Española. The spelling of quotations in ancient Spanish presented in the text haves been kept as they were written in the oriignal work.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used has been kept.

Punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.

* * * * *

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF MIGUEL DE CERVANTES IN TWELVE VOLUMES

VOL. II.

Agent for London. R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON, 4 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.

THE·COMPLETE·WORKS·OF·MIGUEL DE·CERVANTES·SAAVEDRA·VOL·II GALATEA

EDITED·BY·JAS·FITZMAURICE-KELLY TRANSLATED·BY·H·OELSNER·&·A·B·WELFORD

GOWANS·&·GRAY·GLASGOW·NOV·1^{ST} 1903

[Illustration]

PUBLISHERS' NOTE

in explanation of the different types employed.

In order to prevent a difficulty that sometimes arises of distinguishing between the author and the editor, especially when author's and editor's notes to a text both occur, the following plan has been adopted. The text of the author and its variants have been printed throughout in 'old style' type, while all notes &c. added by the editor have been set in 'condensed' type. It is hoped that this innovation will be found of no small service to the general reader as well as to the student.

INDEX

Pag.

INTRODUCTION TO GALATEA vii

PROLOGUE 5

BOOK I 9

BOOK II 50

BOOK III 95

BOOK IV 143

BOOK V 191

BOOK VI 240

INTRODUCTION TO THE GALATEA.

Simple as the bibliography of the _Galatea_ really is, a habit of conjecture has succeeded in complicating it. Though the earliest known edition of the book is unanimously admitted to have appeared at Alcalá de Henares in 1585, it is often alleged that the _princeps_ was actually issued at Madrid during the previous year. This is a mistaken idea arising, probably, out of a slip made by Gregorio Mayáns y Siscar, the first Spaniard[1] who attempted to write a formal biography of Cervantes. In his thirteenth paragraph Mayáns[2] remarked by the way that the _Galatea_ was published in 1584; but he laid no stress upon the date, and dismissed the matter in a single sentence. The error (if it were really an error, and not a mere misprint) was natural and pardonable enough in one who lived before bibliography had developed into an exact study. Unfortunately, it was reproduced by others. It is found, for instance, in a biographical essay on Cervantes which precedes the first edition of _Don Quixote_ issued by the Royal Spanish Academy;[3] and the essayist, Vicente de los Ríos, adds the detail that the _Galatea_ came out at Madrid. It was unlucky that this statement should be put forward where it is. The Academy's responsibility for the texts issued in its name is chiefly financial: for the rest, it habitually appoints the most competent representatives available, and it naturally gives each delegate a free hand. But foreigners, unacquainted with the procedure, have imagined that Ríos must be taken as expressing the deliberate and unanimous opinion of the entire Academy. This is a complete misapprehension. On the face of it, it is absurd to suppose that any corporation, as a whole, is irrevocably committed to every view expressed by individual members. Even were it otherwise, it would not affect the case. An error would be none the less an error if a learned society sanctioned it. But, as a matter of fact, like all those concerned in editing texts or in writing essays for the Academy, Ríos spoke for himself alone. He was followed by Pellicer[4] who, though he gives 1584 as the date of the _princeps_, is less categorical as to the place of publication. Some twenty-two years after Pellicer's time, Fernández de Navarrete[5] accepted his predecessors' view as regards the date, and to this acceptance, more than to anything else, the common mistake is due. Relying on Navarrete's unequalled authority, Ticknor[6] repeated the mis-statement which has since passed into general circulation. Further enquiry has destroyed the theory that the _Galatea_ first appeared at Madrid in 1584. However, as most English writers[7] on this question have given currency to the old, erroneous notion, it becomes necessary to set forth the circumstances of the case. But, before entering upon details, it should be observed (1) that no copy of the supposititious 1584 edition has ever been seen by any one; (2) that there is not even an indirect proof of its existence; and (3) that, so far as the evidence goes, no edition of the _Galatea_ was published at Madrid before 1736: that is to say, until more than a century after Cervantes's death.

We do not know precisely when the _Galatea_ was written. M. Dumaine,[8] indeed, declares positively that the poems in the volume--he must surely mean some of them, not all--were addressed to a lady during the author's stay in Italy. If this were so, these verses would date (at latest) from September, 1575, when Cervantes left Italy for the last time. Sr. D. José María Asensio y Toledo[9] holds that the _Galatea_ was begun in Portugal soon after the writer's return from Algiers in 1580. Of these views one may conceivably be true; one must necessarily be false; and it is more than possible that both are wrong. As no data are forthcoming to support either opinion, we may profitably set aside these speculations and proceed to examine the particulars disclosed in the preliminaries of the _Galatea_. The _Aprobación_ was signed by Lucas Gracián[10] Dantisco at Madrid on February 1, 1584, and, as some time must have passed between the submission of the manuscript to the censor and the issue of his license, it seems certain that the text of the _Galatea_ was finished before the end of 1583. In its present form, the dedication, as will be seen presently, cannot have been written till about the end of the following summer. Meanwhile, on February 22, 1584, the _Privilegio_ was granted at Madrid in the King's name by Antonio de Erasso. It was not till a year later--the very end of February 1585--that the _Fe de erratas_ was passed at Alcalá de Henares by the Licenciado Vares de Castro, official corrector to the University of that city. The _Tasa_, which bears the name of Miguel Ondarza Zabala, was despatched at Madrid on March 13, 1585.

To those who have had no occasion to study such matters as these, the space of time which elapsed between the concession of the _Privilegio_ and the despatch of the _Tasa_ might seem considerable; and it is not surprising that this circumstance should be the basis of erroneous deductions on their part. Apparently for no other reason than the length of this interval, it has been concluded that, between February 22, 1584, and March 13, 1585, there was printed at Madrid an edition of the _Galatea_, every copy of which has--_ex hypothesi_--vanished. This assumption is gratuitous.

It is true that the first editions of certain very popular Spanish books--such as the _Celestina_,[11] _Amadís de Gaula_,[12] _Lazarillo de Tormes_,[13] _Guzmán de Alfarache_,[14] and _Don Quixote_[15]--tend to become exceedingly rare and are, perhaps, occasionally thumbed out of existence altogether. But the _Galatea_, like all pastoral novels, appealed to a comparatively restricted class of readers, and was in no danger of wide popularity. No doubt the _princeps_ of the _Galatea_ is exceptionally rare,[16]--rarer than the _princeps_ of _Don Quixote_; but rarity, taken by itself, is no proof that a work was popular, and, in the present instance, the rarity may be due to the fact that the _Galatea_ was issued in a more or less limited edition. This is what we should expect in the case of a first book published in a provincial town by an author who had still to make his reputation; but, in the absence of direct testimony, the question cannot be decided. What can be proved by any one at all acquainted with Spanish bibliography is that there was no unexampled delay in publishing the _Galatea_. Similar instances abound; but, for our present purpose, it will suffice to mention two which are--or should be--familiar to all who are specially interested in Cervantes and in his writings. As we have just seen, the _Tasa_ of the _Galatea_ is dated thirteen months after the _Aprobación_. An exact parallel to this is afforded by Cervantes's own _Novelas exemplares_: Fray Juan Bautista signed the _Aprobación_ on July 9, 1612, and Hernando de Vallejo signed the _Tasa_ on August 12, 1613.[17] Here the interval is precisely thirteen months. A still more striking instance of dilatoriness is revealed in the preliminaries to another work which has been consulted--or, at least, quoted as though it were familiar to them--by almost all writers on Cervantes from 1761 onwards: namely, Diego de Haedo's _Topographia e Historia general de Argel_, published at Valladolid in 1612. Haedo obtained the _Aprobación_ on October 6, 1604, but the licence was not given till February 8, 1610. In this instance, then, the legal formalities were spread out over five years and, at the final stage, there was a further pause of three years; in all, a delay of eight years.[18] There is no ground for assuming that the official procedure in these matters was more expeditions in 1585 than it was a quarter of a century later and, consequently, in the case of the _Galatea_, the interval of time between the issue of the _Aprobación_ and the despatch of the _Tasa_ cannot be regarded as calling for any far-fetched explanation.

The author's Letter Dedicatory to Ascanio Colonna, Abbot of St. Sophia, is undated, but it contains a passage which incidentally throws light on the bibliography of the _Galatea_. Speaking of his military service under Ascanio Colonna's father, Cervantes mentions his late chief--_aquel sol de la milicia que ayer nos quitó el cielo delante de los ojos_--in terms which imply that Marco Antonio Colonna's death was a comparatively recent event. Now, we know from the official death-certificate[19] that the Viceroy of Sicily, when on his way to visit Philip II., died at Medinaceli on August 1, 1584--exactly six months after the _Aprobación_ for the _Galatea_ had been obtained. Allowing for the rate at which news travelled in the sixteenth century, it seems improbable that Cervantes can have written his dedication much before the end of August 1584. It is conceivable, no doubt, that he wrote two different dedications--one for the alleged Madrid edition of 1584, and another for the Alcalá edition of 1585. It is equally conceivable that though the Alcalá edition of the _Galatea_, in common with every subsequent work by Cervantes, has a dedication, the supposititious Madrid edition was (for some reason unknown) published without one. Manifestly, one of these alternatives must be adopted by believers in the imaginary _princeps_. But, curiously enough, the point does not appear to have occurred to them; for, up to the present time, no such hypothesis has been advanced. Assuming, as we may fairly assume, that only one dedication was written, the complete manuscript of the _Galatea_ cannot well have reached the compositors till September or October 1584. It is possible that some part of the text was set up before this date, but of this we have no proof. If the 375 leaves--750 pages--of which the book consists were struck off late in January or early in February 1585, so as to allow of the text being revised by the official corrector at Alcalá de Henares, and thence forwarded to Madrid by the beginning of March, it must be admitted that the achievement did credit to the country printer, Juan de Gracián, whose name figures on the title-page. Further, as Salvá[20] shrewdly remarks, the appearance of the Colonna escutcheon on this same title-page affords a presumption that the Alcalá edition of 1585 is the _princeps_: for it is unreasonable to suppose that a struggling provincial publisher of the sixteenth century would go to the expense of furnishing a simple reprint with a complimentary woodcut.

Each of the foregoing circumstances, considered separately, tells against the current idea that the _Galatea_ was published at Madrid in 1584, and it might have been hoped that an intelligent consideration of their cumulative effect would ensure the right conclusion: that the story is a myth. But, so Donoso Cortés[21] maintained, man has an almost invincible propensity to error, and the discussion on so plain a matter as the bibliography of the _Galatea_ lends colour to this view. The amount of confusion introduced into the debate is extraordinary. It is occasionally difficult to gather what a partisan of the alleged 1584 edition holds; his pages blaze with contradictions: his theory is half-heartedly advanced, hastily abandoned, and confidently re-stated in a bewildering fashion.[22] Again, what was originally put forward as a pious opinion is transfigured into a dogma. Just as there are some who, when writing on the bibliography of _Don Quixote_, insist that the 1608 edition of that book "must have been revised by the author,"[23] so there are some who, when writing on the bibliography of the _Galatea_, insist with equal positiveness that there "must have been an edition of 1584."[24] This emphasis is out of place in both cases; but it is interesting and instructive to note that these two opinions are practically inseparable from each other. The coincidence can scarcely be accidental, and it may prove advantageous: for, obviously, the refutation of the one thesis must tend to discredit the other. If a writer be convicted of error in a very simple matter which can be tested in a moment, it would clearly be imprudent to accept his unsupported statement concerning a far more complex matter to which no direct test can be applied. And, as it happens, we are now enabled to measure the accuracy of the assertion that the _princeps_ of the _Galatea_ was published at Madrid in 1584.

Those who take it upon themselves to lay down that there "must have been" an edition of that place and date are bound to establish the fact. They are not entitled to defy every rule of evidence, and to call on the other side to prove a negative. The burden of proof lies wholly with them. But, by a rare and happy accident, it is possible to prove a negative in the present case. In view of recent researches, the theory that the _princeps_ of the _Galatea_ was issued at Madrid in 1584 is absolutely untenable. All doubts or hesitations on this head are ended by the opportune discovery, due to that excellent scholar and fortunate investigator, Dr. Pérez Pastor, of the original contract between Cervantes and the Alcalá publisher, Blas de Robles. By this contract Blas de Robles binds himself to pay 1336 _reales_ (£29. 13s. 9d. English) for the author's entire rights.[25] This legal instrument is decisive, for it would be ridiculous--not to say impertinent--to suppose that Cervantes sold his interest twice over to two different publishers in two different cities. There can, therefore, be no further controversy as to when and where the _Galatea_ appeared. It is now placed beyond dispute that Cervantes had not found a publisher before June 1584, and that the book was issued at Alcalá de Henares in 1585--probably not before the month of April. The first intention was to entitle the volume _Los seys libros de Galatea_ but (perhaps with a view to emphasizing the promise of a sequel) it was actually published as the _Primera Parte de la Galatea, dividida en seys libros_.[26] On June 14, 1584, Cervantes received 1116 _reales_ in advance, and, by a deed of the same date, Blas de Robles undertook to pay the balance of 250 _reales_ at the end of September:[27] the very period when, as already conjectured, the printing was begun.[28]

Cervantes was in his thirty-third year when he was ransomed at Algiers on September 19, 1580, and, when he reached Portugal in 1581, he may have intended to enlist once more. It has, in fact, been generally thought that he shared in at least one of the expeditions against the Azores under the famous Marqués de Santa Cruz in 1581-83. This belief is based on the _Información_ presented by Cervantes at Madrid on June 6, 1590;[29] but in this petition to the King the claims of Rodrigo de Cervantes and Miguel de Cervantes are set forth in so confusing a fashion that it is difficult to distinguish the services of the elder brother from those of the junior. It is certain that Rodrigo served at the Azores in 1583, and we learn from Mosquera de Figueroa that he was promoted from the ranks for his distinguished gallantry in the action before Porto das Moas.[30] But it is by no means clear that Miguel de Cervantes took any part in either campaign. Such evidence as we have tells rather against the current supposition. It is ascertained that Cervantes was at Tomar on May 21, 1581, and that he was at Cartagena towards the end of June 1581, while we have documentary evidence to prove that he pawned five pieces of yellow and red taffeta to Napoléon Lomelin at Madrid in the autumn of 1583.[31] If these dates are correct (as they seem to be), it is scarcely possible that Cervantes can have sailed with Santa Cruz for the Azores.[32] The likelihood is that he had to be content with some civil employment and, if so, it was natural enough that he should turn to literature with a view to increasing his small income. A modest, clear-sighted man, he probably did not imagine that he was about to write masterpieces, or to make a fortune by his pen. He perhaps hoped to keep the wolf from the door, or, at the most, to find a rich patron, as his friend Gálvez de Montalvo had done.[33] If these were his ideas, and if, as seems likely, he thought of marrying at about this time, it is not surprising that he should write what he believed would sell. So far as we can judge, he would much rather have wielded a sword than a goose-quill, and he was far too great a humorist to vapour about "art" or an "irresistible vocation." His juvenile verses had found favour with Juan López de Hoyos, and perhaps Rufino de Chamberí had appreciated the two sonnets written in Algiers; but the spirited tercets to Mateo Vázquez had failed of their effect, and Cervantes was shrewd enough to know that versifying was not lucrative. Eighty years before it was uttered, he realized the truth of the divine Gombauld's dying exclamation: _On paie si mal des vers immortels!_ Fortunately, he had many strings to his bow. Like Lope de Vega, he was prepared to attempt anything and everything: prose or verse, the drama, picaresque tales, novels of adventure, and the rest. But, to begin with, he divided his efforts between the theatre and fiction.

In the latter province the path of a beginner was clearly marked out. Too obscure, as yet, to venture upon a line of his own, and anxious, if possible, to conciliate the general body of readers, Cervantes was practically compelled to choose between the chivalresque romance and the pastoral. Not knowing that he was born to kill the former kind, he decided in favour of the latter--and for obvious reasons. The Knight-errantries of Amadís and his comrades had been in vogue from the fourteenth--perhaps even from the thirteenth[34]--century onwards. _Amadís de Gaula_ was printed at least as early as 1508,[35] and had begotten a numerous tribe; but, when Cervantes was feeling his way in the ninth decade of the sixteenth century, popular enthusiasm for these tales of chivalry was cooling. The pastoral novel was the latest literary fashion. It would, possibly, be too much to say that the Spanish pastoral novel was a mere offshoot of the chivalresque romances; yet it is undeniable that the pastoral element is found in chivalresque stories of comparatively early date. For example, in the ninth book of _Amadís_, entitled _Amadís de Grecia_ (1530) the shepherd Darinel and the shepherdess Sylvia are among the characters; in the first two parts of _Don Florisel de Niquea_ (1532) the hero masquerades as a shepherd and pays his court to the shepherdess Sylvia; in the fourth part of _Don Florisel de Niquea_ (1551) the eclogues of Archileo and Laris are early instances of what was destined to become a tedious convention.[36] These, however, are simple foreshadowings of an independent school of fiction which was in full vigour while Cervantes was still a boy.

The Spanish chivalresque novel is thought by many sound judges to derive directly from Portugal,[37] which may, in its turn, have received the material of its knightly tales--and perhaps something more than the raw material--from Celtic France.[38] The conclusion is disputed,[39] but whatever opinion may prevail as regards the source of the books of chivalry, it seems fairly certain that the pastoral novel was introduced into Spain by a Portuguese writer whose inspiration came to him from Italy. In a general sense, Virgil is the father of the pastoral in all Latin lands: the more immediate source of the Italian pastoral is believed to be Boccaccio's _Ameto_, the model of Tasso and Guarini as also of Bembo and Sannasaro. Jacopo Sannazaro,[40] a Neapolitan courtier of Spanish descent, is the connecting link between the literatures of Italy and the Peninsula during the first part of the sixteenth century. His vogue in the latter was enhanced through the instrumentality of the renowned poet Garcilaso de la Vega,[41] the "starry paladin" of Spain. No small part of Garcilaso's work is a poetic recasting of Sannazaro's themes,[42] and we can scarcely doubt that Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ suggested the first genuine Spanish pastoral to the Portuguese, Jorge de Montemôr, so called from his birthplace. The point has been contested, for Montemôr's _Siete libros de la Diana_ are often said to have been published in 1542,[43] and the first Spanish translation of Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ (by Diego López de Ayala) does not appear to have been issued till 1547.[44] It may, however, be taken as established that Montemôr's _Diana_ was not really printed much earlier than 1558-9,[45] when it at once became the fashion.[46] The argument sets forth that in the city of León, by the banks of the Ezla, dwelt the beautiful shepherdess Diana, beloved of the shepherds Sireno and Silvano; the shepherdess favours Sireno, who is suddenly called away to foreign countries, whence he returns a year later to find a change of times and hearts, Diana being wedded to the shepherd Delio: "and here beginneth the first book, and in the remainder you shall find very diverse histories of events which in sooth befell, howbeit travestied under a pastoral style." Montemôr's diverse histories, which owe something to Bernardim Ribeiro's _Saudades_ or _Hystoria de Menina e moça_[47] (a novel that begins as a chivalresque romance and ends as a pastoral tale), took Western Europe by storm. They may have been in Spenser's mind when he wrote _The Shepherd's Calendar_: they were unquestionably utilized by Sir Philip Sidney in _The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia_, and it has been alleged with more or less plausibility that--possibly through Bartholomew Yong's version of Montemôr, which was finished in 1583, though not published till fifteen years later--the episode of Felismena has been transferred from the _Diana_ to the _Two Gentlemen of Verona_.

The _Diana_ ends with the promise of a Second Part in which the shepherd Danteo and the shepherdess Duarda shall figure, but this Second Part was not forthcoming as Montemôr was killed in Piedmont on February 26, 1561.[48] His design was very badly executed in 1564 by his friend Alonso Pérez, a Salamancan physician, who had the assurance to boast that there was scarcely a scrap of original prose or verse in his volume, the whole (as he vaunts) being stolen and imitated from Latins and Italians. "Nor," adds this astonishing doctor, "do I deem that I am in any sort to blame therefor, since they did as much by the Greeks."[49] Another, and a far better, continuation of Montemôr's _Diana_ was issued at Valencia in this same year of 1664 by Gaspar Gil Polo--a sequel which, after proving almost as successful as Montemôr's original, was destined to be plagiarized in the most shameless fashion by Hierónimo de Texeda.[50]

That Cervantes was well acquainted with these early Spanish pastorals is proved by the discussion on the little books--contrasting with the hundred and more stately folios of the chivalresque romances--in Don Quixote's library. The niece of the Ingenious Gentleman thought that these slimmer volumes should "be burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after being cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took a fancy to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and piping." The Priest agrees in principle, but in practice he is more mercifully disposed:--"To begin, then, with the _Diana_ of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should not be burned, but that it should be cleared of all that about the sage Felicia and the magic water,[51] and of almost all the longer pieces of verse: let it keep, and welcome, its prose and the honour of being the first of books of the kind." And when questioned concerning the above-named sequels, the judicious Priest declares:--"As for that of the Salamancan, let it go to swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo's be preserved as if it came from Apollo himself." With this jest on Gil Polo's name, the Priest passes over the next in order of the pastoral novels, Jerónimo de Arbolanche's _Las Habidas_ (1566)[52]--a very rare work which, though not on Don Quixote's shelves, was more or less vaguely known to Cervantes[53]--to pronounce judgment on _Los diez Libros de Fortuna d'Amor_, an amazingly foolish book published in 1573 by a Sardinian soldier named Antonio de lo Frasso. Cervantes was just the man to praise (if possible) the work of an old comrade-in-arms, and, in fact, he contrived (through the Priest) to express his opinion of lo Frasso's book in terms which proved misleading:--"By the orders I have received, since Apollo has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been poets, so droll and absurd a book as this has never been written, and in its way it is the best and the most singular of all of this species that have as yet appeared, and he who has not read it may be sure he has never read what is delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I make more account of having found it than if they had given me a cassock of Florence stuff." It might seem difficult to interpret this as praise, and impossible to misunderstand the Priest's delight at meeting with what had already become a bibliographical rarity; but, some hundred and thirty years later, the last words of the passage were taken seriously and led to a reprint of lo Frasso's book by Pedro de Pineda, one of the correctors of Tonson's _Don Quixote_, who had manifestly overlooked the ridicule of the Sardinian in the _Viaje del Parnaso_.[54]

These pastorals, together with the chivalresque romances, had probably been the entertainment of Cervantes's youth. It was probably another and much later essay of the same kind which induced him to try his luck in the pastoral vein: the _Pastor de Fílida_, published at Madrid in 1582 by his friend Luis Gálvez de Montalvo, who is said (on doubtful authority, as we shall see presently) to have introduced Cervantes in his text as the shepherd Tirsi--_de clarísimo ingenio_. Whether this be so, or not, Cervantes, in his usual kindly, indulgent way, places his friend's work on Don Quixote's shelves, and treats it with gracious deference:--"No Pastor that, but a highly polished courtier; let it be preserved as a precious jewel." The book has but trifling interest for us nowadays; yet we may be sure that Cervantes's admiration was whole-hearted, and the fact that the volume passed through several editions[55] vindicates him from any suspicion of excessive partiality. It was his fine habit to praise generously. Neither his temperament nor his training was critical, and he attached even more than its due importance to the verdict of the public. He frankly rejoiced in Gálvez de Montalvo's success, and it is not unreasonable to conjecture that this success helped to hasten the appearance of the _Galatea_.

It may seem strange that Cervantes, whose transcriptions from life are eminently distinguished for truth and force, should have been induced to experiment in the province of artificial, languid pastoralism. But if, as Taine would have it, climate makes the race, the race makes the individual, and at this period the races of Western Europe had gone (so to say) pastorally mad.[56] The pastoral novel is not to our modern taste; but, as there is no more stability in literature than in politics, its day may come again.[57] In Cervantes's time there was no escaping from the prose idyll. Prodigious tales from the Indies had stimulated the popular appetite for wonders, and the demand was supplied to satiety in the later chivalresque romances. Feliciano de Silva and his fellows could think of nothing better than the systematic exaggeration of the most marvellous episodes in _Amadís de Gaula_. The adventures became more perilous, the knights more fantastically brave, the ladies (if possible) lovelier, the wizards craftier, the giants huger, the monsters more terrific, and so forth. In this vein nothing more was to be done: the formula was exhausted. The rival and more cultured school, founded by Sannazaro, endeavoured to lead men's minds from these noisy banalities to the placid contemplation of nature, or rather of idealized antiquity, by substituting for the din of arms, the stir of cities, and the furrowing of strange oceans by the prows of vulgar traders, the still, primeval

"Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth, and oarless sea."

Unluckily no departure from Sannazaro's original pattern was thought legitimate. Sir Philip Sidney rejects every attempt at innovation with the crushing remark that "neyther Theocritus in Greek, Virgill in Latine, nor Sanazar in Italian did affect it."[58] Hence the unbroken monotony of the pastoral convention. Nothing is easier than to mock at this new Arcadia where beauteous shepherdesses vanish discreetly behind glades and brakes, where golden-mouthed shepherds exchange confidences of unrequited passion, arguing the high metaphysical doctrine of Platonic love, or chanting most melancholy madrigals at intervals which the seasoned reader can calculate to a nicety beforehand. There never was, and never could be, such an atmosphere of deliberate dilettantism in such a world as ours. Taken as a whole these late Renascence pastorals weary us, as Sidney's _Arcadia_ wearied Hazlitt, with their everlasting "alliteration, antithesis and metaphysical conceit," their "continual, uncalled-for interruptions, analysing, dissecting, disjointing, murdering everything, and reading a pragmatical, self-sufficient lecture over the dead body of nature." Briefly, while these pastoral writers of the sixteenth century persuaded themselves and their readers that they were returning to communion with hills and forests, to us it seems as though they offered little beyond unassimilated reminiscences of conventional classicism.

It would be idle to deny that the _Galatea_ has many defects of the school to which it belongs, but it must always have a singular interest as being the first serious literary experiment made by a writer of consummate genius. Cervantes had the model, the sacred model, perpetually before his eyes, and he copied it (if not with conviction) with a grim determination which speaks for itself. He, too,--the _ingenio lego_--must be interpolating his learning, and referring to Virgil, Ovid, Propertius and the rest of them, with an air of intimate familiarity. Twenty years afterwards, when he had outgrown these little affectations, and was penning the amusing passage in which he banters Lope's childish pedantry,[59] the brilliant humorist must surely have smiled as he remembered his own performances in the same kind. He does honour to the grand tradition of prolixity by putting wiredrawn conceits into the mouths of shepherds who are much more like love-sick Abelards than like Comatas or Lacon, and, when his own stock of scholastic subtleties is ended, he has no scruple in allotting to Lenio and Tirsi[60] a short summary of the arguments which had been used long before by Filone and Sofía in his favourite book, León Hebreo's _Dialoghi di Amore_.[61] Had he taken far more material than he actually took, he would have been well within his rights, according to the prevailing ideas of literary morality. Whatever illiterate admirers may say, it is certain that Cervantes followed the fashion in borrowing freely from his predecessors. No careful reader of the _Galatea_ can doubt that its author either had Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ on his table, or that he knew it almost by heart.[62] His appreciation for the _Arcadia_ was unbounded, and in the _Viaje del Parnaso_[63] the sight of Posilipo causes him to link together the names of Virgil and Sannazaro:--

Vímonos en un punto en el paraje, Do la nutriz de Eneas piadoso Hizo el forzoso y último pasaje. Vimos desde allí á poco el más famoso Monte que encierra en sí nuestro hemisfero, Más gallardo á la vista y más hermoso. Las cenizas de Títiro y Sincero Están en él, y puede ser por esto Nombrado entre los montes por primero.

In the _Galatea_, enthusiasm takes the form of conscientious imitation. It cannot be mere coincidence that Ergasto's song--_Alma beata et bella_--is echoed by Elicio as _O alma venturosa_; that such a _ritornello_ as _Ricominciate, o Muse, il vostro pianto_ reappears as _Pastores, entonad el triste canto_; that _Ponete fin, o Muse, al vostro pianto_ is rendered as _Pastores, cesad ya del triste canto_. The sixth book of the _Galatea_ is an undisguised adaptation of Sannazaro's work. In view of these resemblances, and many others indicated by Professor Scherillo,[64] the large indebtedness of Cervantes to Sannazaro cannot be denied.

Nor are León Hebreo and Sannazaro Cervantes's sole creditors. The _Canto de Calíope_, which commemorates the merits of a hundred poets and poetasters, was probably suggested by the _Canto de Turia_ in the third book of Gil Polo's _Diana enamorada_, or by the list of rhymers in Boscán's _Octava Rima_, or even by a similar catalogue interpolated in the thirty-eighth canto of Luis Zapata's unreadable epic, _Carlos famoso_.[65] It may be pleaded for Cervantes that he admired Boscán, Gil Polo, and Zapata, and that his imitation of them is natural enough. _Sea muy enhorabuena._ The same explanation cannot apply to the uncanny resemblance, which Professor Rennert[66] has pointed out, between the address to Nisida in the third book of the _Galatea_ and the letter to Cardenia in the second book of Alonso Pérez' worthless sequel to Montemôr's _Diana_. Had Cervantes remembered this small loan when writing the sixth chapter of _Don Quixote_, gratitude would probably have led him to pass a more lenient sentence on the impudent Salamancan doctor.

It was in strict accordance with the pastoral tradition that the author should introduce himself and his friends into his story. In Virgil's Fifth Eclogue, Daphnis was said to stand for Julius Cæsar, Mopsus for Æmilius Macer of Verona, Menalcas for the poet himself. Sannazaro had, it was believed, revived the fashion in Italy.[67] Ribeiro presented himself to the public as Bimnardel, Montemôr asked for sympathy under the name of Sireno, and Sir Philip Sidney masqueraded as Pyrocles. In the _Pastor de Fílida_, it is understood that Mendino is Don Enrique de Mendoza y Aragón, that Pradileo is the Conde de Prades (Luis Ramón y Folch), that Silvano is the poet Gregorio Silvestre, that Tirsi is Francisco de Figueroa (or, as some rashly say,[68] Cervantes), and that Montalvo himself appears as Siralvo. The new recruit observed the precedents and, if we are to accept the authority of Navarrete,[69] the Tirsi, Damon, Meliso, Siralvo, Lauso, Larsileo, and Artidoro of the _Galatea_ are pseudonyms for Francisco de Figueroa, Pedro Láinez, Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, Luis Gálvez de Montalvo, Luis Barahona de Soto, Alonso de Ercilla, and Andrés Rey de Artieda respectively.[70] Lastly, commentators and biographers are mostly agreed that the characters of Elicio and Galatea stand for Cervantes and for Doña Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano[71] whom he married some ten months after the official _Aprobación_ to his novel was signed. We know on Cervantes's own statement that many of his shepherds were shepherds in appearance only,[72] and Lope de Vega confirms the tradition;[73] but we shall do well to remember that, in attempting to identify the characters of a romance with personages in real life, conjecture plays a considerable part.[74] Some of the above identifications might easily be disputed, and, at the best, we can scarcely doubt that most of the likenesses given by Cervantes in the _Galatea_ are composite portraits.

In any case, it is difficult to take a deep interest in Cervantes's seventy-one[75] shepherds and shepherdesses. Their sensibility is too exquisite for this world. Among the swains, Lisandro, Silenio, Mireno, Grisaldo, Erastro, Damon, Telesio, Lauso, and Lenio weep most copiously. Among the nymphs, Galatea, Lidia, Rosaura, Teolinda, Maurisa, Nisida and Blanca choke with tears. Teolinda, Leonarda and Rosaura swoon; Silerio, Timbrio, Darinto, Elicio and Lenio drop down in a dead faint. In mind and body these shepherds and shepherdesses are exceptionally endowed. They can remain awake for days. They can recite, without slurring a comma, a hundred or two hundred lines of a poem heard once, years ago; and the casuistry of their amorous dialectics would do credit to Sánchez or Escobar. All this is common form. A generation later, Honoré d'Urfé replied to the few who might accuse Astrée of talking above her station:--"Reponds-leur, ma Bergere, que pour peu qu'ils ayent connoissance de toy, ils sçauront que tu n'es pas, ny celles aussi qui te suiuent, de ces Bergeres necessiteuses qui pour gagner leur vie conduisent les troupeaux aux pasturages: mais que vous n'auez toutes pris cette condition que pour viure plus doucement & sans contrainte. Que si vos conceptions & vos paroles estoient veritablement telles que celles des Bergers ordinaires, ils auroient aussi peu de plaisir de vous escouter que vous auriez beaucoup de honte à les redire."[76] The plea was held to be good. The pastoral convention of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries thrust out all realism as an unclean thing. The pity is that Cervantes, in his effort to conform to the rule, was compelled to stifle what was best and rarest in his genius. Yet, amid these philosophizings and artificialities, a few gleams of his peculiar, parenthetical humour flash from him unawares: as when the refined Teolinda seeks to console Lidia--_limpiándole los ojos con la manga de mi camisa_:[77] or in the description of Crisalvo's fury--_que le sacaba de juicio, aunque él tenía tan poco, que poco era menester para acabárselo_: or in Arsindo's thoughtful remark that the shepherds might possibly be missed by the flocks from which they had been absent for the last ten days. Again, there is a foreshadowing of a famous passage in _Don Quixote_ when the writer compares the shepherd's life with the courtier's. Once more, the story of Timbrio's adventures--which are anything but idyllic--is given with uncommon spirit. There are ingenuity and fancy in many of the poems, and there is interest as well as grace in the little autobiographical touches--the mention of Arnaute Mamí, the local patriotism that surges up in allusions to the river Henares on which stands the author's native town--_el gran Compluto_, as he says in his eloquent way.

Cervantes is admittedly a wonderful creator; but the pastoral of his time--a pastiche or mosaic of conventional figures--gave him no opportunity of displaying his powers as an inventor. He is also a very great prose-writer, ranging with an easy mastery from the loftiest rhetoric to the quick thrust-and-parry of humoristic colloquy. Still, as has often been remarked, his attention is apt to wander, and vigilant grammarians have detected (and chronicled) slips in his most brilliant chapters. In the matter of correctness, the _Galatea_ compares favourably with _Don Quixote_, and its style has been warmly eulogized by the majority of critics. And, on the whole, the praise is deserved. The _Galatea_ is (one fancies) the result of much deliberation--the preliminary essay of a writer no longer young indeed, but abounding in hope, in courage, and in knowledge of the best literary models which his country had produced. The First Part of _Don Quixote_ was dashed off at odds and ends of time by a man acquainted with rebuffs, poverty, disastrous failure of every kind. Purists may point to five grammatical flaws in _Don Quixote_ for one in the _Galatea_, and naturally the latter gains by this comparison. But, whatever the technical weaknesses of _Don Quixote_, that book has the supreme merit of allowing Cervantes to be himself. In the _Galatea_ he is, so far as his means allow, Virgil, Longus, Boccaccio, Petrarch, León Hebreo, Sannazaro, Montemôr--even the unhappy Pérez--every one, in fact, but himself. Hence, in the very nature of things, the smoothly filed periods of this first romance cease to be characteristic of the writer, and have even led some to charge him with being a corrupter of the language, a _culto_ before _culteranismo_ was invented.[78]

The charm of Cervantes's style, at its best, lies in its spontaneity, strength, variety, swiftness, and noble simplicity: it is the unrestrained expression of his most original and seductive personality. In the _Galatea_, on the other hand, Cervantes is too often an echo, a timid copyist, reproducing the accepted _clichés_ with an exasperating scrupulousness. Galatea is _discreta_, Silvia is _discreta_, Teolinda is _discreta_: Lisandro is _discreto_, Artidoro is _discreto_, Damon is _discreto_. The noun and its regulation epithet are never sundered from each other. And _verde_--the eternal adjective _verde_--haunts the distracted reader like an obsession: the _verdes árboles_, the _verde suelo_, the _verde yerba_, the _verde prado_, the _verde carga_, the _verde llano_, the _verde parra_, the _verde laurel_, the _verdes ramos_,--and even _verdes ojos_.[79] A hillock is _espeso_: a wood is _espeso_. One may choose between _verdadero y honesto amor_ and _perfeto y verdadero amor_. Beauty is _extremada_: grace or wit is _extremada_: a good voice is _extremada_. And _infinito_ sparkles on almost every second page. It is all, of course, extremely correct and in accord with a hundred thousand precedents. But, since the charm palls after incessant repetition, it would not be surprising if some should think that such undeviating fidelity to a model is not an unmixed good, that tame academic virtues may be bought too dear, and that a single chapter of that sadly incorrect book, _Don Quixote_, is worth a whole wilderness of impeccable pastorals.

Still we cannot feel so sure as we should wish to be that Cervantes was of this mind. He longed to be an Arcadian, though he had no true vocation for the business. And yet the sagacious criticism of Berganza in the _Coloquio de los perros_[80] shows that he saw the absurdity of shepherds and shepherdesses passing "their whole lives in singing and playing on the pipes, bagpipes, rebecks, and hautboys, and other outlandish instruments." The intelligent dog perceived that all such tales as the _Diana_ "are dreams well written to amuse the idle, and not truth at all, for, had they been so, there would have been some trace among my shepherds of that most happy life and of those pleasant meadows, spacious woods, sacred mountains, lovely gardens, clear streams and crystal fountains, and of those lovers' wooings as virtuous as they were eloquent, and of that swoon of the shepherd's in this spot, of the shepherdess's in that, of the bagpipe of one shepherd sounding here, and the flageolet of the other sounding there." Cervantes knew well enough that shepherds in real life were not called Lauso or Jacinto, but Domingo or Pablo; and that they spent most of their leisure, not in chanting elegies, but in catching fleas and mending their clogs. He tells us so. And that he realised the faults of his own performance is evident from the verdict pronounced on "the _Galatea_ of Miguel de Cervantes" by the Priest in _Don Quixote_:--"That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine, and to my knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in verses. His book has some good invention in it, it presents us with something but brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the Second Part it promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in winning the full measure of indulgence that is now denied it; and in the meantime do you, Señor Gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters."[81]

This reference, as Mr. Ormsby noted, "is Cervantes all over in its tone of playful stoicism with a certain quiet self-assertion." Cervantes had, indeed, a special tenderness for the _Galatea_ as being his eldest-born--_estas primicias de mi corto ingenio_--and this is shown by his constant desire to finish it, his persistent renewal of the promise with which the First Part closes. The history of these promises is instructive. In 1585 Cervantes[82] publicly pledged himself to bring out a continuation, if the First Part of the _Galatea_ were a success: it was to follow shortly (_con brevedad_). The work does not seem to have made a great hit; but Cervantes, the only man entitled to an opinion on this particular matter, was satisfied with its reception and, as the Priest's speech shows, in 1605 he held by his intention of publishing the promised sequel. But he dallied and tarried. _Con brevedad_ is, as posterity knows, an expression which Cervantes interprets very liberally. Twenty-eight years after the publication of the _Galatea_, he used the phrase once more in the preface to the _Novelas exemplares_: the sequel to _Don Quixote_, he promises, shall be forthcoming shortly (_con brevedad_). This announcement caught Avellaneda's eye, and drove him into a grotesque frenzy of disappointment. It seems evident that he took the words--_con brevedad_--in their literal sense, imagining that Cervantes had nearly finished the Second Part of _Don Quixote_ in 1613, and that its appearance was a question of a few months more or less. Accordingly, meanly determining to be first in the field, he hurried on with his spurious sequel, penned his abusive preface, and rushed into print. It is practically certain that this policy of sharp practice produced precisely the result which he least desired. Perhaps he hoped that Cervantes, discouraged at being thus forestalled, would abandon his own Second Part in disgust. There was never a more complete miscalculation. Stung to the quick by Avellaneda's insolence, Cervantes, in his turn, made what haste he could with the genuine continuation. Had Avellaneda but known how to wait, the chances are that Cervantes would have devoted his best energies to the composition of _Las Semanas del Jardín_ (promised in the dedication of the _Novelas exemplares_), or of _El Engaño á los ojos_ (promised in the preface to his volume of plays), or of _El famoso Bernardo_ (promised in the dedication of _Persiles y Sigismunda_). Frittering away his diminishing strength on these various works, and enlarging the design of _Don Quixote_ from time to time--perhaps introducing the Knight, the Squire, the Bachelor and the Priest as shepherds--Cervantes might only too easily have left his masterpiece unfinished, were it not for the unintentional stimulus given by Avellaneda's insults.

How far is this view of the probabilities confirmed, or refuted, by what occurred in the case of the _Galatea_? The Second Part of that novel, like the Second Part of _Don Quixote_, had been promised _con brevedad_. Ten years passed, and still the sequel to the pastoral did not appear. Ticknor[83] records the tradition that Cervantes "wrote the _Galatea_ to win the favour of his lady," Doña Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano, and cynically adds that the new Pygmalion's "success may have been the reason why he was less interested to finish it." The explanation suggested is not particularly creditable to Cervantes, nor is it credible in itself. Cervantes's intention, so often expressed, was excellent, and it is simple justice to remember that, for the best part of the dozen years which immediately followed the publication of the _Galatea_, he was earning his bread as a tax-collector or tithe-proctor. This left him little time for literature. Twenty years went by, and still the promised _Galatea_ was not issued. One can well understand it. Cervantes had been discharged from the public service: he was close on sixty and seemed to have shot his bolt: his repute and fortune were at the lowest point. His own belief in the _Galatea_ might be unbounded; but it was not very likely that he would succeed in persuading my businesslike bookseller to issue the Second Part of a pastoral novel which had (more or less) failed nearly a quarter of a century earlier. He struck out a line for himself and, in a happy hour for the world, he found a publisher for _Don Quixote_. It was the daring venture of a broken man with nothing to lose, and its immense success completely changed his position. Henceforward he was an author of established reputation, and publishers were ready enough to take his prose and pay for it. As the reference in _Don Quixote_ shows, Cervantes had never, in his most hopeless moment, given up his idea of publishing his sequel to the _Galatea_. His original promise in 1585 was explicit, if conditional: and manifestly in 1605 he held that the condition had been fulfilled. In the latter year he was much less explicit as to his intention of publishing a continuation of _Don Quixote_, and, in the concluding quotation adapted from _Orlando Furioso_, he almost invited some other writer to finish the book. Probably no contemporary reader would have been surprised if the sequel to the _Galatea_ had appeared before the sequel to _Don Quixote_.[84] Still it must be acknowledged that the instant triumph of _Don Quixote_ altered the situation radically. In these circumstances, which he could not possibly have foreseen when he vaguely suggested that another hand might write the further adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Cervantes was perfectly justified in deciding to finish the later work before printing the earlier one. It would have been the most natural thing in the world for an ordinary man to make the most of his popularity and to bring out both sequels in rapid succession. But Cervantes was not an ordinary man, and few points in his history are more inexplicable than the fact that, after the amazing success of _Don Quixote_, he published practically nothing for the next eight years.

At last in 1613, the _Novelas exemplares_ were issued. The author was silent as to the continuation of the _Galatea_, but he promised that the Second Part of _Don Quixote_ should be forthcoming--_con brevedad_. We know what followed. The _Viaje del Parnaso_ was published in the winter of 1614; and, though it contains a short Letter Dedicatory and Preface,[85] which might easily have been made the vehicle of a public announcement in Cervantes's customary manner, there is no allusion to the new _Don Quixote_ or to the new _Galatea_. Next year, however, in the dedication[86] of his _Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses nuevos_, Cervantes informed the Conde de Lemos,--with whom the book was a special favourite[87]--that he was pushing on with the _Galatea_. He makes the same statement in the Prologue to the Second Part of _Don Quixote_,[88] and the assurance is repeated by him on his deathbed in the noble Letter Prefatory to _Persiles y Sigismunda_.[89] This latter is a solemn occasion, and Cervantes writes in a tone of impressive gravity which indicates that he weighed the full meaning of what he knew would be his last message. _Ayer me dieron la Extremaunción, y hoy escribo esta: el tiempo es breve, las ansias crecen, las esperanzas menguan._ And, in the Prologue, written somewhat earlier, the old man eloquent bids this merry life farewell, declares that his quips and jests are over, and appoints a final rendezvous with his comrades in the next world. At this supreme moment his indomitable spirit returns to his first love, and once more he promises--for the fifth time--the continuation of the _Galatea_.

In view of the dying man's words it is exceptionally difficult to believe that not a line of this sequel was actually written. It is equally difficult to believe that, if the _Galatea_ existed in a fragmentary state, the widow, the daughter, the son-in-law, the patron, the publisher, the personal friends, the countless admirers of the most illustrious and most popular novelist in all the Spains, should have failed to print it. We cannot even venture to guess what the facts of the case really were. From Cervantes's repeated declarations it would seem probable that he left a considerable amount of literary manuscript almost ready for the Licenser. With the exception of _Persiles y Sigismunda_, every shred of every work that he mentions as being in preparation has vanished. It would be strange if this befell an author of secondary rank: it is incomprehensible when we consider Cervantes's unique position, recognized in and out of Spain. All we know is this: that, on Cervantes's lips, _con brevedad_ might mean--in fact, did mean--more than thirty years, and that the sequel to the _Galatea_, though promised on five separate occasions, never appeared. Providence would seem to have decreed against the completion of many Spanish pastorals. Montemôr's _Diana_, the sequels to it by Pérez and Gil Polo, all remained unfinished: the _Galatea_ is unfinished, too. It is possible, but unlikely, that the world has been defrauded of a masterpiece. Yet, unsuited as was the pastoral _genre_ to the exercise of Cervantes's individual genius, we should eagerly desire to study his treatment of the old theme in the maturity of his genius and with the consciousness that his splendid reputation was at stake. He might perhaps have given us an anticipation in prose of Lope de Vega's play, _La Arcadia_,[90] a brilliant, poetic parody after Cervantes's own heart. Fate has ruled against us, and

The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower Unfinished must remain.[91]

The pastorals lived on for many years in Spain[92] and out of it; but _Don Quixote_, the _Novelas exemplares_, _Guzmán de Alfarache_, and the growing crowd of picaresque realistic tales had so completely supplanted them in popular favour that Cervantes himself could scarcely have worked the miracle of restoring their former vogue among his countrymen.

Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez,[93] whose honourable enthusiasm for all that relates to Cervantes forbids his admitting that there are spots on his sun, considers the _Galatea_ to be the best of pastorals, and other whole-hearted admirers (such as August and Friedrich von Schlegel)[94] have said as much. This, however, is not the general verdict of those who have read the _Galatea_ from beginning to end, and really such readers are not many. Prescott[95] cautiously observes that it is "a beautiful specimen of an insipid class." Hazlitt, who may be taken as the honest representative of a numerous constituency, confesses that he does not know the book, and offers an ingenious apology for his remissness. Cervantes, he declares, claims the highest honour which can belong to any author--"that of being the inventor of a new style of writing." But, after this ingratiating prelude, he continues:--"I have never read his _Galatea_, nor his _Loves of Persiles and Sigismunda_, though I have often meant to do it, and I hope to do so yet. Perhaps there is a reason lurking at the bottom of this dilatoriness. I am quite sure that the reading of these works could not make me think higher of the author of _Don Quixote_, and it might, for a moment or two, make me think less." And no doubt it might: just as the reading of _Hours of Idleness_, of _Zastrozzi_, and of _Clotilde de Lusignan ou le beau Juif_ might, for a moment or two, make us think less of the authors of _Don Juan_, of _Epipsychidion_, and of _Eugénie Grandet_.

The _Galatea_ survives as the first timorous experiment of a daring genius. It had no great vogue in Spain, and it is a mistake to say that "seven editions were called for in the author's lifetime."[96] At least, bibliographers know that, if they were called for, they certainly did not appear. As a matter of fact the book was only twice reprinted while Cervantes was alive, and, as neither of these editions was published in Spain, it is possible that he was unaware of their existence. In 1590 the _Galatea_ was reproduced at Lisbon, expurgated of all heathenish allusions by Frey Bertholameu Ferreyra, acting for the Portuguese Inquisition; and this incomplete Portuguese reprint helped to make the pastoral known outside the Peninsula. It so happened that César Oudin, a teacher of Spanish at Paris--where he had already (1608) reprinted the _Curioso impertinente_,[97]--travelled through Spain and Portugal during 1610, and in the course of his journey he unsuccessfully endeavoured to obtain a copy of the Alcalá _Galatea_. He had to be content with a copy of the mutilated Lisbon edition, and this he reprinted in 1611 at Paris,[98] probably with an eye to using it as a text-book for his French pupils who were passing through an acute crisis of the pastoral fever. M. Jourdain had not yet put his embarrassing question to his music and dancing masters:--"Pourquoi toujours des bergers?" At all events, there is some evidence to prove that the _Galatea_ was popular in fashionable Parisian circles while Cervantes still lived. In his _Aprobación_ to the Second Part of _Don Quixote_, the Licenciado Francisco Márquez Torres records that when, on February 25, 1615, he visited the French embassy, he was beset by members of the Envoy's suite[99] who, taking fire at the mention of Cervantes's name, belauded the First Part of _Don Quixote_, the _Novelas exemplares_, and the _Galatea_--which one of them knew almost by heart.[100] It is unlikely that the author himself knew much of the _Galatea_ by heart; but at about this period Honoré d'Urfé[101] had restored the vogue of pastoralism in France, and Márquez Torres's ecstatic Frenchman (if he really existed) only shewed the tendency to exaggeration characteristic of recent converts. He was, very possibly, among the last of the elect in Madrid. One edition--some say two editions--of the _Galatea_ appeared posthumously in 1617: two more editions (provincial, like their immediate predecessor or predecessors) were issued in 1618. Then the dust of a hundred years settled down on all copies of the forgotten book. Three reprints during the eighteenth century, ten reprints during the nineteenth century, satisfied the public demand.[102]

The sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries did not produce a single translation of the _Galatea_.[103] But in 1783 appeared a French adaptation of this pastoral by the once famous Chevalier Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian,[104] who compressed the six books of the original into three, added a fourth book of his own in which he married Elicio to Galatea, and so contrived a happy ending. "Il _florianise_ tant soit peu toutes choses," says Sainte-Beuve[105] drily. In this delicate, perfumed, powder-and-patch arrangement by the idyllic woman-beater[106] and Captain of Dragoons, Cervantes's novel became astonishingly popular. Edition after edition was struck off from the French presses, and the work was read all over Europe in translations: three in German, two in Italian, three in English, two in Portuguese, one in Greek. Odder still, in this form, the book made its way home again and, just as certain Spaniards who had forgotten Guillén de Castro enjoyed Juan Bautista Diamante's translation (1658) of Corneille's _Cid_, so three editions go to prove that, a century and a half later, certain other Spaniards who had forgotten Cervantes enjoyed Casiano Pellicer's translation (1797) of Florian's _Galatée_.[107] And there was more to follow next year. Cándido María Trigueros[108] showed himself worthy of his Christian name by bettering Florian's example: he laid violent hands on Cervantes, suppressed here, amplified there, purged the book of its verses, and supplied a still happier ending--on a monumental scale--by incontinently marrying ten lucky shepherds to ten lovely shepherdesses. One cannot help wondering what Cervantes would have thought of this astounding performance. It was too much for the Spanish public, and Trigueros turned to do better work in adapting old plays to the modern stage. The taste for Arcadianism died away at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Artificial pastorals have, indeed, not yet recovered from a polite but deadly note published in the preface to _Obermann_: "Le genre pastoral, le genre descriptif out beaucoup d'expressions rebattues, dont les moins tolérables, à mon avis, sont les figures employées quelques millions de fois et qui, dès la première, affaiblissent l'objet qu'elles prétendaient agrandir." Such expressions, continues the writer, are _l'émail des prés_, _l'azur des cieux_, _le cristal des eaux_, _les lis et les roses de son teint_, _les gages de son amour_, _l'innocence du hameau_, _des_ _torrens s'échapperènt de ses yeux_--"et tant d'autres que je ne veux pas condamner exclusivement, mais que j'aime mieux ne pas rencontrer." Sénancour was perhaps thinking more particularly of Florian at the moment, but his criticism applies also to Cervantes's first book.

It was not till 1830 that the first genuine translation of the _Galatea_ appeared, and this German version was followed by two others in the same language. These stood alone till 1867[109] when it occurred to a droll, strange man named Gordon Willoughby James Gyll (or James Willoughby Gordon Gill),[110] to publish an English rendering of Cervantes's pastoral in which, as he thought, "the rural characters are nicely defined; modesty and grace with simplicity prevailing." Gyll, who wrongly imagined that he was the first to translate the _Galatea_, seems to have been specially attracted by Cervantes's verses,--a compliment which the author would have enjoyed all the more on learning from his admirer that these "compositions are cast in lyrics and iambics, without being quite of a dithyrambic character, furnishing relief to the prose, and evincing the skill and tendency of the bard in all effusions relative to love, the master-passion of our existence, without which all would be arid and disappointing to the eagle spirit of the child of song." After this opening you know what to expect. And you get it--three hundred and forty-nine pages of it! Gyll never writes of parts, but of "portions"; rather than leave a place, he will "evacuate" it; nothing will induce him to return if he can "revert"; he prefers "scintillations" to gleams, "perturbators" to disturbers, "cogitation" to thought, and "exculpations" to excuses. Gyll's English, as may be judged from the specimens just quoted, is almost as eccentric as the English of Mohindronauth Mookerjee in his _Memoir of the late Honourable Justice Onoocool Chunder Mookerjee_, and it is much less amusing. His effrontery is beyond description. He knew nothing of Cervantes whom he actually believed to be a contemporary of Floridablanca in the eighteenth century.[111] He almost implies that he has read Cervantes's lost _Filena_, though he admits that it "is now rarely found." His ignorance of Spanish is illimitable. How he can have presumed to translate from it passes all understanding. He misinterprets the easiest phrases, and he follows the simple plan of translating each word by the first rough equivalent that he finds given in some poor dictionary. It would be waste of time to criticize the inflated prose and detestable verse which combine to make Gyll's rendering the worst in the world. Two specimens will suffice to show what Gyll can do when he gives his mind to it. At the very opening of the First Book, he reveals his powers:--"But the perspicacity of Galatea detected in the motions of his countenance what Elicio contained in his soul, and she evinced such condescension that the words of the enamoured shepherd congealed in his mouth, though it appeared to him that he had done an injury to her, even to treat of what might not have the semblance of rectitude." This is Gyll as a master of prose. Gyll, the lyric poet, is even richer in artistic surprises. Take, for instance, the closing stanzas of Lauso's song at the beginning of the Fifth Book:--

In this extraordinary agony, The feelings entertained go but for dumb Seeing that love defies, And I am cast in the midst of the fierce fire. Cold water I abhor Were it not for my eyes, Which fire augments and spoils In this amorous forge. I wish not or seek water, Or from annoyance supplicate relief.

Begin would all my good, My ills would finish all, If fate should so ordain, That my sincere trust in life, Silenca[112] would assure, Sighs assure it. My eyes do thoroughly me inform Me weeping in this truth. Pen, tongue, will In this inflexible reason me confirm.

These examples speak for themselves.[113] Cervantes was not indeed a very great poet; but his verses are often graceful and melodious, and it would have afflicted him sorely to see his lines travestied in this miserable fashion. It is inexplicable that such absolute nonsense should be published. But it is a singular testimony to the public interest in all concerning Cervantes that, in default of anything better, this discreditable version should have been read, and even reprinted.

For the present edition a new translation has been prepared. It proceeds on the one sound principle of translating from the original as faithfully as possible, without either omission or addition. The task of rendering the _Galatea_ into English is less trying, and therefore less tempting, than the task of rendering _Don Quixote_ or the _Novelas exemplares_; but the _Galatea_ offers numerous difficulties, and it will be found that these have been very satisfactorily overcome by Dr. Oelsner and Mr. A. Baker Welford. They have the distinction of producing the first really adequate translation of the _Galatea_ in any language.

JAS. FITZMAURICE-KELLY.

February, 1903.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The article on Cervantes in Nicolás Antonio's _Bibliotheca Hispana_ (Roma, 1672), vol. ii., p. 105, is bibliographical rather than biographical. In Antonio's time practically nothing was known concerning the details of Cervantes's life. It is curious that the first writer to attempt a biography of Cervantes was a foreigner--possibly Peter Motteux, whose English translation dates from 1700: a biographical sketch, entitled _An Account of the Author_, was included in the third volume (London, 1703). The following sentences, which I quote from the first volume of the third edition (London, 1712), are not without interest:--

"For the other Passages of his Life, we are only given to understand that he was for some time Secretary to the Duke of Alva" (p. ii). "Some are of the Opinion, that upon our Author's being neglectfully treated by the Duke of Lerma, first Minister to K. Philip the Third, a strange imperious, haughty Man, and one who had no Value for Men of Learning; he in Revenge, made this Satyr which, as they pretend, is chiefly aim'd at that Minister" (pp. iii.-iv.). The biographer then refers to Avellaneda's spurious sequel, and continues:--"Our Author was extremely concern'd at this Proceeding, and the more too, because this Writer was not content to invade his Design, and rob him, as 'tis said, of some of his Copy, but miserably abuses poor Cervantes in his Preface" (p. iv.).

These idle rumours as to Cervantes's relations with Lerma are taken from René Rapin's _Réflexions sur la poétique d'Aristote, et sur les ouvrages des Poetes anciens & modernes_ (Paris, 1674, p. 229) and from Louis Moréri's _Grand Dictionaire historique ou le mélange curieux de l'histoire sacrée et profane_ (Paris, 1687, third edition, vol. i., p. 795); but it is odd to find them reaching England before they reached Spain. Mayáns and Pedro Murillo Velarde do not reproduce them till 1737 and 1752 respectively: the first in his _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Briga-Real), and the second in his _Geographica historica_ (Madrid), vol x., lib. x., p. 28.

[2] See the _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ in Tonson's reprint of _Don Quixote_ (Londres, 1738), vol. i., p. 6. This edition is generally described as Lord Carteret's edition; but, though Carteret certainly commissioned Mayáns to write the biography of Cervantes, and though he may have patronized Tonson's venture, it does not seem so sure that he paid for printing the text (which, as regards the First Part, is merely a mechanical reproduction of the 1607 Brussels edition). The usual version of the story is that Carteret, on looking over the library of Queen Caroline, wife of George II., missed _Don Quixote_ from the shelves, and ordered the sumptuous Tonson edition with a view to making the Queen a present of the most delightful book in the world. It may be so. Carteret appears to have been interested in Spanish literature, and we know that Harry Bridges's translation (Bristol, 1728) of some of the _Novelas exemplares_ was brought out "under the Protection of His Excellency." But, with regard to Carteret's defraying the entire cost of Tonson's reprint of _Don Quixote_, there are some circumstances which cause one to hesitate before accepting the report as true. So far as can be gathered, the first mention of Carteret in this connexion is found in Juan Antonio Mayáns's preface to the sixth edition (Valencia, 1792) of Luis Gálvez de Montalvo's _Pastor de Fílida_:--

"Carolina, Reina de Inglaterra, muger de Jorge segundo, avia juntado, para su entretenimiento, una coleccion de libros de Inventiva, i la llamava _La Bibliotheca del sabio Merlin_, i aviendosela enseñado a Juan Baron Carteret, le dijo este sabio apreciador de los Escritores Españoles, que faltava en ella la Ficcion más agradable, que se avia escrito en el Mundo, que era la Vida de D. Quijote de la Mancha, i que él queria tener el mérito de colocarla" (p. xxv.).

This statement, it will be seen, was made more than fifty years after the event to which it refers. Nevertheless it may be true. Juan Antonio Mayáns may have had the story from Gregorio Mayáns. He was most unlikely to invent it, and the fact that he gives 1737 as the date of Gregorio's biography inclines one to believe in his general accuracy: all other writers give 1738 as the date, but it has recently been found that a _tirage à part_ was struck off at Briga-Real (i.e. Madrid) a year before the _Vida_ was printed in London. It must, however, be remembered that Gregorio Mayáns never met Carteret, and was never in England. Knowing that Carteret paid him for his share in the work, he might easily have imagined that Carteret also paid Tonson, and may have been understood to state this inference as a positive fact. In any case, the memory of an elderly man is not always trustworthy in such matters as these. Moreover, as Gregorio Mayáns died in 1781, we must allow for the possibility of error on the part of Juan Antonio, when repeating a tale that he had heard at least eleven years before.

Some external evidence, such as it is, tells against the common belief, Leopoldo Rius in his _Bibliografía crítica de las obras de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Madrid, 1895-1899) notes (vol. ii. p. 300) a German work entitled _Angenehmes Passetems_ (Frankfurt and Leipzig, 1734): in the preface to this publication it is stated as a piece of news that the Spanish Ambassador in London, the Conde de Montijo, has ordered a copy of _Don Quixote_ to be handsomely bound for Queen Caroline. We do not know if Montijo gave her the book, but it seems certain that _Don Quixote_ was in her library. A copy of the Antwerp edition of 1719, bearing her name and the royal crown, passed into the possession of my friend, the late Mr. Henry Spencer Ashbee: see his pamphlet, _Some Books about Cervantes_ (London, 1900), pp. 29-30. Possibly the interview with Carteret took place before 1734, or before Queen Caroline possessed the Antwerp edition. But it is worth noting that the Queen died on November 20, 1737, and that Tonson's edition appeared next spring. If Carteret were so deeply engaged in the undertaking as we are assured, and if his chief motive were (as reported) to pay a courtly compliment to Queen Caroline, it is strange that he should not have caused the edition to be dedicated to the Queen's memory, and it is still stranger that the preliminaries should not contain the least allusion to her. As it happens, the Dedication, dated March 26, 1738, is addressed to the Condesa de Montijo, wife of the ex-Ambassador above-named. It would be a small but useful service if one of Cervantes's many English admirers should establish what share Carteret actually had in an enterprise for which, hitherto, he has received the whole credit.

[3] See _El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha...._ Nueva edición corregida por la Real Academia Española (Madrid, 1780), vol. i., p. xii.

[4] See Juan Antonio Pellicer's edition of _Don Quixote_ (Madrid, 1797-1798), vol. i. pp. lxxv.-lxxvi.: "Restituido pues Cervantes á España en la primavera del año de 1581 fixó su residencia en Madrid.... Hizo también lugar para escribir y publicar el año de 1584 _La Galatea_."

It appears that all the assertions here made by Pellicer are mistaken. (1) Cervantes did not return to Spain in the spring of 1581, but late in 1580; (2) he did not reside permanently in Madrid during 1581, for we find him at Tomar on May 21 of that year; (3) if we are to understand that the _Galatea_ was composed in 1684, this is disproved by the fact that the manuscript was passed by the censor on February 1, 1584, and must naturally have been in his possession for some time previously; (4) it will be shewn that the _Galatea_ was not published in 1584, but in 1585. Pellicer is not to be blamed for not knowing the real facts. The pity is that he should give his guesses as though they were certainties. Yet, in a sense, events have justified his boldness; for no man's guesses have been more widely accepted.

[5] See Martín Fernández de Navarrete's _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Madrid, 1819), pp. 65-68. Navarrete, however, points out that the _Galatea_ cannot have appeared early in 1584, as his predecessors had alleged: "No se publicó hasta los últimos meses de aquel año." I do not understand him to say that the book was published at Madrid.

[6] See George Ticknor's _History of Spanish Literature_ (Sixth American Edition, Boston, 1888), vol. ii., p. 117.

[7] Amongst others, John Gibson Lockhart in his _Introduction_ to a reprint of Peter Motteux's version of _Don Quixote_ (Edinburgh, 1822), vol. i., p. 25; Thomas Roscoe, _The Life and Writings of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (London, 1839), p. 38; Mrs. Oliphant in her _Cervantes_ (Edinburgh and London, 1880), p. 76; and Alexander James Duffield in his _Don Quixote: his critics and commentators_ (London, 1881), p. 79. In his _Later Renaissance_ (London, 1898), p. 149, Mr. David Hannay gives the date as 1580. On the other hand, John Ormsby stated the facts with his habitual accuracy in the Introduction to the first edition of his translation of _Don Quixote_ (London, 1885), vol. i., p. 29.

[8] See C.-B. Dumaine's _Essai sur la vie et les œuvres de Cervantes d'après un travail inédit de D. Luis Carreras_ (Paris, 1897), p. 47: "Les vers de la Galatée remontent au temps de son séjour en Italie. Ces poésies étaient addressées à une dame, à laquelle il témoignait de tendres sentiments."

[9] See Sr. D. José María Asensio y Toledo's _Nuevos documentos para ilustrar la vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, con algunas observaciones y articulos sobre la vida y obras del mismo autor y las pruebas de la autenticidad de su verdadero retrato_ (Seville, 1864), pp. 51-52. Sr. Asensio y Toledo, who repeats his view as to the date of composition in his _Cervantes y sus obras_ (Barcelona, 1901), p. 195, relies mainly on an expression in the preface: "Huyendo destos dos inconvenientes no he publicado antes de ahora este libro." Taken by itself, this phrase certainly implies that the book had been completed some time before; but the passage is too rhetorically, and too vaguely, worded to admit of safe deductions being drawn from it. The idea that the _Galatea_ was written in Portugal was thrown out long ago by Eustaquio Fernández de Navarrete: see his _Bosquejo histórico sobre la novela española_ in Manuel Rivadeneyra, _Biblioteca de autores españoles_, (Madrid, 1854), vol. xxxiii., p. xxiv.

[10] Lucas Gracián Dantisco wrote an imitation of Della Casa's book under the title of _Galateo español_ (Barcelona, 1594). His brother, Tomás, is mentioned by Cervantes in the _Canto de Calíope_.

[11] The earliest known edition of the _Celestina_ is believed to be represented by an unique copy which was once in Heber's collection. The colophon of this volume is dated Burgos 1499; but there is some doubt concerning the date inasmuch as the last page has been recently inserted and may not be a faithful reproduction of the original printer's mark. It is, however, tolerably certain that this edition came from the press of Fadrique de Basilea (Friedrich Biel): for whom, see Conrad Haebler's _Typographie Ibérique du quinzième siècle_ (La Haye and Leipzig, 1901), pp. 30-32. It is also fairly certain that this Heber copy, whatever its exact date may be, is earlier than the Seville edition of 1501, reprinted (1900) by M. Raymond Foulché-Delbosc in his _Bibliotheca Hispanica_. Finally, the probability is that the edition which survives in the Heber volume was preceded by another edition of which no trace remains: see M. Foulché-Delbosc's remarkable _Observations sur la Célestine_ in the _Revue hispanique_ (Paris, 1900), vol. vii., pp. 28-80.

[12] The earliest known edition of _Amadís de Gaula_ (Zaragoza, 1508) is believed to exist in an unique copy in the British Museum, press-marked as C. 57. g. 6. But there is reason to think that there was a previous edition which has disappeared.

[13] There are three distinct editions of _Lazarillo de Tormes_ all dated 1554. They were published respectively at Alcalá de Henares, Burgos, and Antwerp, and--so M. Foulché-Delbosc inclines to believe--in the order here given: see his _Remarques sur Lazarille de Tormes_ in the _Revue hispanique_ (Paris, 1900). vol. vii., pp. 81-97. M. Foulché-Delbosc argues with great ingenuity that these three editions of 1554 derive from another edition (printed before February 26, 1554) of which no copy has as yet been found.

[14] Sr. D. Francisco Rodríguez Marín mentions that a copy of the _princeps_ of the _Primera Parte de Guzmán de Alfarache_ (Madrid, 1599) existed in the library of the Marqués de Jerez de Caballeros, recently acquired by Mr. Archer M. Huntington: see Rodríguez Marín's _El Loaysa de "El Celoso Extremeño"_ (Sevilla, 1901), p. 283, _n._ 102. Another copy of this rare edition is in the British Museum Library.

[15] Rius (_op. cit._, vol. i., p. 4) mentions eight copies of the _princeps_ of _Don Quixote_ (Madrid, 1605), and it is certain that there are other copies in existence.

[16] In _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works_ (London, 1895), p. 267, Mr. Henry Edward Watts, says of the Alcalá _Galatea_ (1585) that "only one copy is known--in the possession of the Marqués de Salamanca." This is a mistake. Rius, who does not refer to the volume alleged to be in the Marqués de Salamanca's possession, specifies (_op. cit._, vol. i., pp. 100-101) five other copies. He could not be expected to know that there was yet another copy in England. English students of Cervantes were, however, aware of the fact fifteen years before the publication of Mr. Watts's work: see _A Catalogue of the printed books, manuscripts, autograph letters, and engravings, collected by Henry Huth. With collations and bibliographical descriptions_ (London, 1880), vol. i., p. 282.

[17] See the Introduction to vol. vii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1902), p. viii.

[18] It may be interesting to note the exact dates attached to the official instruments in Haedo's book. The _Licencia_ of the General of the Benedictines was signed by his deputy, Fray Gregorio de Lazcano, at Valladolid on October 6, 1604; the _Aprobación_ was signed by Antonio de Herrera at Madrid on October 18, 1608; the _Privilegio_ was signed by Jorge de Tovar at Madrid on February 18, 1610; the _Fe de erratas_ was signed by Dr. Agustín de Vergara at Valladolid on June 3, 1612; the _Tasa_ was signed by Miguel Ondarza Zabala at Madrid on October 19, 1612. As we have already seen, the last-named signed the _Tasa_ of the _Galatea_ some twenty-six years previously.

[19] See Fernández de Navarrete, _op. cit._, pp. 392-393: "Petri ad vincula 1º día de agosto de 1584 murió el Ilmo. Sr. Marco Antonio Colona, virey de Sicilia, en casa del Ilmo. Sr. duque de Medinaceli, que fué miércoles en la noche, á las once horas de la noche: rescibió todos los sacramentos: no hizo testamento: enterróse en depósito, que se hizo ante Hernando de Durango, secretario del consejo del Ilmo. Sr. duque, en la capilla mayor de esta colegial á la parte del evangelio, debajo de la reja de las reliquias; hiciéronse tres oficios con el cabildo de esta colegial, y en todos tres oficios celebraron por el ánima de S. E. todos los prebendados, y seis días consecutivos, que fué cada prebendado nueve misas: no se hizo otra cosa,--El canónigo Guzmán."

[20] See the _Catálogo de la biblioteca de Salvá_, escrito por D. Pedro Salvá y Mallen, y enriquecido con la descripcion de otras muchas obras, de sus ediciones, etc. (Valencia, 1872), vol. ii., p. 124, no. 1740.

[21] See the _Obras de Don Juan Donoso Cortés_, ordenadas y precedidas de una noticia biográfica por Don Gavino Tejado (Madrid, 1854), vol. iv., pp. 59-60: "Entre la verdad y la razón humana, después de la prevaricación del hombre, ha puesto Dios una repugnancia inmortal y una repulsión invencible ... entre la razón humana y lo absurdo hay una afinidad secreta, un parentesco estrechísimo."

[22] Of these perplexing statements it will suffice to note a few which occur in _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works by Henry Edward Watts_ (London, 1895):

(_a_) "A new epoch in the life of Cervantes opens in 1584. In that year he printed his first book...." (p. 76).

(_b_) "A few days before the publication of _Galatea_, Cervantes was married at Esquivias.... The 12th of December, 1584, was the date of the ceremony." (p. 90).

(_c_) "Cervantes married his wife in December, 1584, and for reasons which will be manifest to those who have read the story of his life I think we may presume that his first book was printed before that date." (p. 257).

(_d_) "The _Galatea_, Cervantes' first book ... was approved for publication on the 1st of February, 1584, but, for some reason not explained, it was not published till the beginning of the year following." (p. 87).

(_e_) "Salvá maintains it (_i.e._ the Alcalá edition of 1585) to be the _editio princeps_, but I agree with Asensio and the older critics in believing that there must have been an edition of 1584." (p. 257).

(_f_) "Navarrete and Ticknor, following all the older authorities, make the place of publication Madrid and the date 1584. But Salvá has proved in his Bibliography that the _Galatea_ was first published at Alcalá, the author's birthplace, at the beginning of 1585." (p. 87 _n._ 3).

These sentences do not appear to convey a strictly consistent view: (_b_) contradicts (_c_), (_c_) contradicts (_d_), (_d_) contradicts (_e_), and (_e_) contradicts (_f_).

As to (_b_) and (_d_), the expressions "a few days" and "the beginning of the new year" should evidently be interpreted in a non-natural sense. The _Tasa_, as we have seen, was not signed at Madrid till March 13, 1585; the next step was to return the printed sheets to the publisher at Alcalá de Henares; the publisher had then to forward the _Tasa_ to the printer, and finally the whole edition had to be bound. In these circumstances, the date of publication cannot easily be placed earlier than April, 1585. Accordingly, the expression (_b_)--"a few days"--must be taken to mean about ninety or a hundred days: and "the beginning of the year," mentioned under (_d_), must be advanced from January to April.

Concerning (_e_), it is true that Sr. Asensio y Toledo was at one time inclined to believe in the existence of a 1584 edition of the _Galatea_: see Salvá, _op. cit._, vol ii, p. 124. But Sr. Asensio y Toledo admitted that Salvá's argument had shaken him: "sus observaciones de V. me han hecho parar un poco." This was over thirty years ago. Meanwhile, Sr. Asensio y Toledo has revised his opinion, as may be seen in his latest publication, _Cervantes y sus obras_ (Barcelona. 1902). "En el año 1585 salió á luz _La Galatea_" (p. 268).... "El libro se imprimió en Alcalá, por Juan Gracián, y es de la más extremada rareza" (pp. 382-383). He now accepts Salvá's view without reserve.

As to (_f_), I have searched Navarrete's five hundred and eighty pages and Ticknor's one thousand six hundred and ninety-seven pages, but have been unable to find that either of them gives Madrid as the place of publication. An exact reference to authorities is always advisable.

[23] See the _Life of Miguel de Cervantes by Henry Edward Watts_ (London, 1891), p. 117.

[24] See _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works by Henry Edward Watts_ (London, 1895), p. 257.

[25] See _Documentos Cervantinos hasta ahora inéditos recogidos y anotados por el Presbítero D. Cristóbal Pérez Pastor Doctor en Ciencias_. Publicados á expensas del Excmo. Señor D. Manuel Pérez de Guzmán y Boza, Marqués de Jerez de los Caballeros (Madrid, 1902), vol. ii., pp. 87-89: "Madrid, 14 Junio 1584. En la villa de Madrid a catorce días del mes de Junio de mil e quinientos e ochenta e quatro años por ante mi el escribano público e testigos deyuso escriptos, paresció presente Miguel de Çerbantes, residente en esta corte, e otorgó que zede, vende, renuncia e traspassa en Blas de Robles, mercader de libros, residente en esta corte, un libro de prosa y verso en que se contienen los seis libros de Galatea, que él ha compuesto en nuestra lengua castellana, y le entrega el previllegio original que de Su Magestad tiene firmado de su real mano y refrendado de Antonio de Heraso, su secretario, fecho en esta villa en veinte e dos días del mes de Hebrero deste presente año de ochenta e quatro para que en virtud de él el dicho Blas de Robles, por el tiempo en él contenido, haga imprimir e vender e venda el dicho libro y hacer sobre ello lo (_sic_) y lo a ello anejo, dezesorio y dependiente, todo lo que el dicho Miguel de Çerbantes haria a hazer podria siendo presente, y para que cumplidos los dichos dies años del dicho previllegio pueda pedir e pida una o más prorrogaciones y usar y use de ellas y del privillegio que de nuevo se le concediere, esto por prescio de mill e trescientos e treynta e seys reales que por ello le da e paga de contado de que se dió y otorgó por bien contento y entregado a toda su voluntad, y en razón de la paga y entrega dellos, que de presente no paresce, renunció la excepcion de la _non numerata pecunia_ y las dos leyes y excepcion del derecho que hablan e son en razón de la prueba del entregamiento como en ellas y en cada una de ellas se contiene, que no le valan, e se obligó que le será cierto e sano el dicho previllegio e las demas prorrogaciones que se le dieren e concedieren en virtud de él e de este poder e cesion e no le será pedido ni alegado engaño, aunque sea enormísimo, en más o en menos de la mitad del justo precio, porque desde agora, caso que pudiera haber el dicho engaño, que no le hay, se lo suelta, remite y perdona, y si alguna cosa intentare a pedir no sea oido en juicio ni fuera de él, y se obligó que el dicho previllegio será cierto e sano e seguro y no se le porná en ello agora ni en tiempo alguno por ninguna manera pleito ni litigio alguno, e si le fuere puesto incoará por ello causa y la seguirá, fenescerá y acabará a su propia costa o mision e cumplimiento de su interese, por manera que pacificamente el dicho Blas de Robles quede con el dicho previllegio e prorrogaciones libremente so pena de le pagar todas las costas e daños que sobre ello se le recrescieren, e para el cumplimiento de ello obligó su persona e bienes, habidos e por haber, e dió poder cumplido a todas e qualesquier justicias e juezes de Su Magestad Real de qualesquier partes que sean al fuero e jurisdicion de las quales y de cada una de ellas se sometió, e renunció su propio fuero, jurisdicion e domicilio y la ley _Si convenerit de jurisdictione omnium judicum_ para que por todo rigor de derecho e via executiva le compelan e apremien a lo ansi cumplir e pagar con costas como si sentencia definitiva fuese dada contra él e por él consentida e pasada en cosa juzgada, e renunció las leyes de su favor e la ley e derecho en que dice que general renunciacion fecha de leyes non vala, e ansi lo otorgó e firmó de su nombre siendo testigos Francisco Martínez e Juan Aguado e Andrea de Obregón, vecinos de le dicha villa, al qual dicho otorgante doy fee conozco.--Miguel de Cerbantes.--Pasó ante mi Francisco Martínez, escribano.--Derechos xxxiiij^o."

[26] Sr. Asensio y Toledo (_op. cit._, p. 194) inclines to think that Cervantes, when engaged on the first rough draft of his novel, intended to call it _Silena_.

[27] _Documentos_, vol. ii., pp. 90-92. "Madrid, 14 Junio 1584. Sepan quantos esta carta de obligacion vieren como yo Blas de Robles, mercader de libros, vecino de esta villa de Madrid, digo: que por quanto hoy día de la fecha de esta carta y por ante el escribano yuso escripto, Miguel de Çervantes, residente en esta corte de Su Magestad, me ha vendido un libro intitulado los seys libros de Galatea, que el dicho Çervantes ha compuesto en nuestra lengua castellana, por prescio de mill e trescientos e treynta e seys reales y en la escriptura que de ello me otorgó se dió por contento y pagado de todos los dichos maravedís e confesó haberlos rescebido de mi realmente y con efecto, y porque en realidad de verdad, no obstante lo contenido en la dicha escriptura, yo le resto debiendo ducientos e cinquenta reales y por la dicha razón me obligo de se los dar e pagar a él o a quien su poder hubiere para en fin del mes de Setiembre primero que verná deste presente año de ochenta e quatro, llanamente en reales de contado, sin pleito ni litigio alguno, so pena del doblo e costas, para lo qual obligo mi persona e bienes habidos e por haber e por esta carta doy poder cumplido a todas e qualesquier justicias e juezes de Su Magestad real de qualesquier partes que sean, al fuero e jurisdicion de las quales e de cada una de ellas me someto, e renuncio mi propio fuero, jurisdicion e domicilio y la ley _Si convenerit de jurisdictione omnium judicum_ para que por todo rigor de derecho e via executiva me compelan e apremien a lo ansi cumplir e pagar con costas como si sentencia difinitiva fuese dada contra mi e por mi consentida e pasada en cosa juzgada, e renuncio todas e qualesquier leyes que en mi favor sean y la ley e derecho en que dice que general renunciacion fecha de leyes non vala, en firmeza de lo qual otorgué esta carta de obligacion en la manera que dicha es ante el presente escribano e testigos deyuso escriptos. Que fué fecha e otorgada en la villa de Madrid a catorze días del mes de Junio de mill e quinientos e ochenta e quatro años, siendo testigos Andrés de Obregón e Juan Aguado e Baltasar Pérez, vecinos de esta villa, y el otorgante, que doy fee conozco, lo firmó de su nombre en el registro.--Blas de Robles.--Pasó ante mi Francisco Martínez, escribano.--Sin derechos."

[28] It may be as well to say that my conjecture (p. xiii) was made, and that the draft of this Introduction was written, before the publication of Dr. Pérez Pastor's second volume.

[29] See Navarrete, _op. cit._, pp. 312-313: "Señor.--Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra dice, que ha servido á V. M. muchos años en las jornadas de mar y tierra que se han ofrecido de veinte y dos años á esta parte, particularmente en la batalla naval, donde le dieron muchas heridas, de las cuales perdió una mano de un arcabuzazo, y el año siguiente fué á Navarino, y después á la de Túnez y á la Goleta, y viniendo á esta corte con cartas del Sr. D. Joan y del duque de Sesa para que V. M. le hiciese merced, fué captivo en la galera del Sol, él y un hermano suyo, que también ha servido á V. M. en las mismas jornadas, y fueron llevados á Argel, donde gastaron el patrimonio que tenian en rescatarse, y toda la hacienda de sus padres y los dotes de dos hermanas doncellas que tenía, las cuales quedaron pobres por rescatar á sus hermanos, y después de libertados fueron á servir á V. M. en el reino de Portugal y á las Terceras con el marques de Santa Cruz, y agora al presente están sirviendo y sirven á V. M., el uno dellos en Flandes de alferez, y el Miguel de Cervantes fué el que trajo las cartas y avisos del alcaide de Mostagan, y fué á Oran por orden de V. M., y después ha asistido sirviendo en Sevilla en negocios de la armada por orden de Antonio de Guevara, como consta por las informaciones que tiene, y en todo este tiempo no se le ha hecho merced ninguna."

[30] See Cristóbal Mosquera de Figueroa's _Comentario en breve compendio de disciplina militar, en que se escriue la jornada de las islas de los Açores_ (Madrid, 1596), f. 58.

Dr. Pérez Pastor sums up the case concisely in the _Prólogo_ to his _Documentos Cervantinos_ (Madrid, 1897), vol. i., pp. xi.-xii.; "Casi todos los biógrafos de Cervantes han sostenido que éste asistió á la jornada de la Tercera, fundándose en que así lo indica en el pedimento de la Información del año 1590; pero si tenemos en cuenta que en dicho documento van englobados los servicios de Miguel y Rodrigo de Cervantes, y por ende que es fácil atribuir al uno los hechos del otro hermano, que Miguel estaba en Tomar por Mayo de 1581, en Cartagena á fines de Junio de este año, ocupado en cosas del servicio de S. M., y en Madrid por el otoño de 1583, que el Marqués de Santa Cruz, después de haber reducido la Tercera y otras islas, entró en Cádiz el 15 de Septiembre del dicho año, se hace casi imposible que Miguel de Cervantes pudiera asistir á dicha jornada."

[31] _Ibid._, p. 89. "Madrid, 10 Septiembre, 1585. En la villa de Madrid, a diez días del mes de septiembre de mill y quinientos y ochenta y cinco años, en presencia de mi el presente y testigos de yuso escriptos parescieron presentes Rodrigo de Zervantes y doña Magdalena de Zervantes, hermanos, residentes en esta corte, e dixeron que por quanto habrá dos años, poco más o menos tiempo, Miguel de Zerbantes, su hermano, por orden de la dicha doña Magdalena empeñó al señor Napoleon Lomelin cinco paños de tafetan amarillos y colorados para aderezo de una sala, que tienen setenta y quatro varas y tres quartas, por treinta ducados, y que hasta agora han estado en el empeño, y la dicha doña Magdalena hizo pedimento ante el señor alcalde Pedro Bravo de Sotomayor en que pidió se le entregasen pagado el dicho empeño, y después de haber puesto y fecho el dicho pedimento se han concordado en esta manera.... Testigos que fueron presentes a lo que dicho es, Juan Vázquez del Pulgar y Juste de Oliva, sastre, los quales juraron a Dios en forma debida de derecho conocer a los dichos otorgantes y que se llaman e nombran como de suso dize sin cautela, y Marcos Diaz del Valle, estantes en Madrid, y los dichos otorgantes lo firmaron de sus nombres.--Rodrigo de Cerbantes.--Doña Magdalena de Cerbantes--Pasó ante mi Baltasar de Ugena. Derechos real e medio."

[32] Curiously enough, there is some dispute as to whether Cervantes's great rival, Lope de Vega, did or did not take part in an expedition to the Azores. Lope's assertion in his _Epístola_ to Luis de Haro is explicit enough. If any doubt on the subject has arisen, this is mainly due to Lope's vanity in under-stating his age.

[33] See the _Letter Dedicatory_ in Gálvez de Montalvo's _Pastor de Fílida_ addressed to Don Enrique de Mendoza y Aragón. Gálvez de Montalvo rejoices in his good fortune without any false shame: "Entre los venturosos, que a U. S. conocen, i tratan, he sido yo uno, i estimo que de los más, porque deseando servir a U. S. se cumplio mi deseo, i assi degè mi casa, i otras mui señaladas, dò fué rogado que viviesse, i vine a èsta, donde holgaré de morir, i donde mi mayor trabajo es estar ocioso, contento, i honrado como criado de U. S."

[34] See the suggestive observations of that admirable scholar, Madame Carolina Michaëlis de Vasconcellos in Gustav Gröber's _Grundriss der romanischen Philologie_ (Strassburg, 1897), II Band, 2 Abteilung, p. 216, _n._ 2. "Schon an den Namen _Amadís_ knupft sich so manche Frage. Ist er eine willkurliche, auf der Halbinsel entstandene Abänderung aus dem frz. _Amadas_ (engl. _Amadace_) latinisirt zu _Amadasius_? d. h. eine wohlklingendere Analogiebildung zu dem portug. Namen _Dinís_? also _Amad-ysius_? Man vergleiche einerseits: _Belis Fiis Leonis Luis Belianis Belleris; Assiz Aviz; Moniz Maris_ etc., und andererseits das alte Adj. _amadioso_, heute _(a)mavioso_. Oder gab es eine frz. Form in _-is_, wie die bereits 1292 vorkommende ital. (_Amadigi_) wahrscheinlich machen würde, falls sie erwiesen echt wäre (s. _Rom._ xvii., 185)?..."

[35] See a very interesting note in _Il Cortegiano del Conte Baldesar Castiglione annotato e illustrato da Vittorio Cian_ (Firenze, 1894), p. 327. Commenting on Castiglione's allusion to _Amadís_--"pero bisogneria mandargli all'Isola Ferma" (lib. iii., cap. liv.)--Professor Cian notes the rapid diffusion of _Amadís de Gaula_ in Italy: "Ma i' _Amadís_ era conosciuto assai prima frai noi, ed è notevole a questo proposito una lettera scritta in Roma da P. Bembo, il 4 febbraio 1512, al Ramusio, nella quale parlando del Valerio (Valier), loro amico, e amico del nostro C. e dell' Ariosto e dei Gonzaga di Mantova, il poeta veneziano ci porge questa notizia: 'Ben si pare che il Valerio sia sepolto in quel suo Amadagi....' (pubbl. da me nel cit. _Decennio delta vita del Bembo_, p. 206)."

[36] See vol. xl. of Manuel Rivadeneyra _Biblioteca de autores españoles_ entitled _Libros de caballerías con un discurso preliminar y un catalógo razonado por Don Pascual de Gayangos_ (Madrid, 1857), pp. xxxi. et seqq.

[37] The Portuguese case is well stated by Theophilo Braga in his _Historia das novelas portuguezas de cavalleria_ (Porto, 1873), in his _Questões de litteratura e arte portugueza_ (Lisboa, 1881), and in his _Curso de historia de litteratura portugueza_ (Lisboa, 1885). It is most forcibly summarized by Madame Michaëlis de Vasconcellos (_op. cit._, pp. 216-226) who cites, as partisans of the Portuguese claim, Warton, Bouterwek, Southey, Sismondi, Clemencín, Ticknor, Wolf, Lemcke, and Puymaigre. To these names might be added those of the two eminent masters, M. Gaston Paris and Sr. D. Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo.

[38] See _La Littérature française au moyen âge XI^e-XIV^e siècle par Gaston Paris, Membre de l'Institut_. Deuxième édition revue, corrigée, augmentée et accompagnée d'un tableau chronologique. (Paris, 1890). Referring to the _romans bretons_, M. Gaston Paris writes (p. 104): "Le Perceforest français au XIV^e siècle, _l'Amadís_ portugais puis espagnol aux XV^e et XVI^e siècles sont des imitations de ces grands romans en prose."

[39] Chiefly by Gayangos in the _Discurso preliminar_ to Rivadeneyra, vol. xl.; by José Amador de los Ríos in his _Historia crítica de la literatura española_ (1861-65), vol. v., pp. 78-97; by Eugène Baret in _De l'Amadis de Gaule_ (second edition, Paris, 1871); by Ludwig Braunfels in his _Kritischer Versuch über den Roman Amadis von Gallien_ (Leipzig, 1876); and by Professor Gottfried Baist in the above-mentioned section of the _Grundriss der romanischen Philologie_, pp. 440-442.

[40] See the _Arcadia di Jacobo Sannazaro secondo i manoscritti e le prime stampe con note ed introduzione di Michele Scherillo_ (Torino, 1888).

[41] _Ibid._, pp. cclxi.-cccxliv.

[42] Compare, for example, Garcilaso's lines:--

Tengo vna parte aqui de tus cabellos, Elissa, embueltos en vn blanco paño; Que nunca de mi seno se me apartan. Descojolos, y de vn dolor tamaño Enternecer me siento, que sobre 'llos Nunca mis ojos de llorar se hartan, Sin que de allí se partan: Con sospiros calientes, Mas que la llama ardientes: Los enxugo del llanto, y de consuno Casi los passo y cuento vno a vno, Iuntandolos con vn cordon los ato, Tras esto el importuno Dolor, me dexa descansar vn rato.

with the lines sung by Meliseo at the end of Sannazaro's twelfth _egloga_:--

I tuoi capelli, o Phylli, in una cistula Serbati tegno, et spesso, quand' io volgoli, Il cor mi passa una pungente aristula. Spesso gli lego et spesso oimè disciolgoli, Et lascio sopra lor quest' occhi piovere; Poi con sospir gli asciugo e inseme accolgoli. Basse son queste rime, exili et povere; Ma se'l pianger in Cielo ha qualche merito, Dovrebbe tanta fe' Morte commovere. Io piango, o Phylli, il tuo spietato interito, E'l mondo del mio mal tutto rinverdesi. Deh pensa, prego, al bel viver preterito, Se nel passar di Lethe amor non perdesi.

An exhaustive study on Garcilaso's debts to Italy is given by Professor Francesco Flamini--_Imitazioni italiane in Garcilaso de la Vega_--in _La Biblioteca delle scuole italiane_ (Milano, June 1899).

[43] See George Ticknor's _History of Spanish Literature_ (Sixth edition, Boston, 1888), vol. iii., p. 94. Ticknor, however, failed to notice that the date in his copy was a forgery: see Mr. J. L. Whitney's _Catalogue_ (Boston, 1879), p. 234, and compare Salvá y Mallen, _op. cit._, vol. ii., p. 168.

[44] Scherillo, _op. cit._, p. ccxlvii.

[45] The proof of this has been supplied independently by the late John Ormsby (see vol. iii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1901), p. 51, _n._ i.); by Professor Hugo Albert Rennert (see _The Spanish Pastoral Romances_ (Baltimore, 1892), p. 9); and by myself (see the _Revue hispanique_ (Paris, 1895), vol. ii., pp. 304-311). All three appear to have been anticipated in the excellent monograph entitled _Jorge de Montemayor, sein Leben und sein Schäferroman die_ "_Siete Libros de la Diana_" _nebst einer Übersicht der Ausgaben dieser Dichtung und bibliographischen Anmerkungen herausgegeben von Georg Schönherr_ (Halle, 1886), p. 83.

The decisive point is that Ticknor's copy, the oldest known edition, must be at least as late as 1554, for Montemôr here refers to the Infanta Juana as a widow: see (lib. iv.) the fifth stanza of the _Canto de Orfeo_. Her husband, Dom João, died on January 2, 1554. A duplicate of the Ticknor volume is in the British Museum library.

[46] See the preface to Fray Bartholomé Ponce's _Primera Parte de la Clara Diana á lo divino, repartida en siete libros_ (Zaragoza, 1582): "El año mil quinientos cincuenta y nueue, estando yo en la corte del Rey don Philipe segundo deste nombre ... vi y ley la Diana de Jorge de Mõtemayor, la qual era tan accepta quanto yo jamas otro libro en Romance aya visto: entonces tuue entrañable desseo de conocer a su autor, lo qual se me cumplio tan a mi gusto, que dentro de diez días se offrecio tener nos combidados a los dos, vn canallero muy Illustre, aficionado en todo estremo al verso y poesia."

[47] For Ribeiro, see Madame Michaëlis de Vasconcellos, _op. cit._, pp. 291-295. Ribeiro's work seems to have been printed posthumously, the earliest known edition being issued at Ferrara in 1554. But, as Madame Michaëlis de Vasconcellos observes (p. 295, _n._ 8): "Dass lange vor dem ital. Drucke Ribeiro's wie Falcao's Werke grossen Ruf hatten, steht ausser Zweifel. Sie müssen in Handschriften oder Flugblättern unter den Lesenden Kurs gehabt haben." It is, perhaps, not superfluous to mention that Ribeiro's _Menina e moça_, like Virgil's _Formosum Corydon ardebat Alexim_, takes its title from the opening words.

[48] See Schönherr, _op. cit._, p. 26. "Was das genauere Datum des Todes Montemayor's betrifft, so wird hierfür im Vorwort der _Diana_ ed. 1622 der 26. Februar des Jahres 1561 angegeben, und zwar war es des Dichters Freund Alonso Pérez, der es der Nachwelt überlieferte, wiewohl es sich in dessen erster, 1564 erschienener Ausgabe der _Segunda Parte de la Diana_ noch nicht findet. Die Richtigkeit seiner Angabe lässt sich einigermassen prufen, nicht mit Hülfe der Elegie des Dorantes, die Salvá's Vermutung (No. 1909) entgegen der Ausgabe vom Jahre 1561 noch nicht angehängt ist, wol aber in Hinblick auf des oben stehende Sonett Pagan's, welches bereits in dessen 1562 erschienener _Floresta de varia poesía_ enthalten ist, so dass man hiernach keine Ursache hat, der Datierung des Pérez zu misstrauen."

The sonnet mentioned by Schönherr, and reprinted by Salvá y Mallen, occurs on _f_ of Diego Ramírez Pagán's _Floresta de varia poesía_ (1562):

Nuestro Monte mayor, do fué nascido? En la ciudad del hijo de Laerte. Y que parte en la humana instable suerte? Cortesano, discreto, y entendido. Su trato como fué, y de que ha biuido? Siruiendo, y no acerto, ni ay quien acierte. Quien tan presto le dió tan cruda muerte? Imbidia, y Marte, y Venus lo ha mouido. Sus huessos donde están? En Piamonte. Porque? Por no los dar a patria ingrata. Que le deue su patria? Inmortal nombre. De que? Larga vena, dulce, y grata. Y en pago que le dan? Talar el monte. Y haura quien le cultiue? No ay tal hõbre.

The British Museum Library contains a copy of Ramírez Pagán's _Floresta_: a book esteemed by Gallardo, Gayangos, and Salvá (_op. cit._, vol. i., p. 153, no. 339) as "uno de los más raros que existen en la literatura poética española."

[49] See the prologue to Pérez' continuation (A 5 of the Antwerp edition, 1580) " ... casi en toda esta obra no ay narracion, ni platica, no solo en verso, más aun en prosa, que à pedaços de la flor de Latinos y Italianos hurtado, y imitado no sea; y no pienso por ello ser digno de reprehension, pues lo mesmo de los Griegos hizieron."

[50] The whole history, bibliographical and literary, of the pastoral movement in Spain may be studied in the searching and learned monograph of Professor Hugo Albert Rennert, _The Spanish Pastoral Romances_ (Baltimore, 1892). A minute examination of Texeda's plagiary, which escaped detection by Ticknor, will be found on pp. 39-42 of Professor Rennert's work.

[51] The reference is, no doubt, to the passage in the fifth book of Montemôr's _Diana_: "Y tomando el vaso que tenía en la mano izquierda le puso en la suya á Sireno, y mando que lo bebiese, y Sireno lo hizo luego; y Selvagia y Silvano bebieron ambos el otro, y en este punto cayeron todos tres en el suelo adormidos, de que no poco se espantó Felismena y la hermosa Belisa que allí estaba...." Cp. Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ (_Prosa nona_, Scherillo's edition, p. 171): "Al quale subgiunse una lodula, dicendo, in una terra di Grecia (dela quale yo ora non so il nome) essere il fonte di Cupidine, del quale chiunche beve, depone subitamente ognie suo amore."

The expedient of the magic water, to which Cervantes refers once more in the _Coloquio de los Perros_ (see vol. viii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1902), p. 163), seems to be as old as most things in literature. Scherillo, in his valuable commentary to the _Arcadia_ cites a parallel from Pliny, _Naturalis Historia_, lib. xxxi., cap. 16: "Cyzici fons Cupidinis vocatur, ex quo potantes amorem deponere Mucianus credit."

[52] It is just possible, however, that Cervantes may have omitted the _Habidas_ deliberately; for though Ticknor (_op. cit._, vol. iii., p. 99, _n._ 18), on the authority of Gayangos, quotes the book as "among the earliest imitations of the Diana," so excellent a scholar as Professor Rennert (_op. cit._, p. 111) inclines to think "that it is rather a 'Novela Caballeresca.'"

[53] This seems to follow from the references in the _Viaje del Parnaso_:

El fiero general de la atrevida Gente, que trae un cuervo en su estandarte, Es ARBOLANCHES, muso por la vida (cap. vii., ter. 81).

And

En esto, del tamaño de un breviario Volando un libro por el aire vino. De prosa y verso que arrojó el contrario. De verso y prosa el puro desatino Nos dió á entender que de ARBOLANCHES eran _Las Avidas_ pesadas de contino (cap. vii., ter. 60-61).

These sallies have brought down on Cervantes the displeasure of implacable bibliographers. Salvá y Mallen (_op. cit._, vol. ii., pp. 19-20, no. 1518) drily observes that, as the book is almost wholly in verse, it does not at all correspond to Cervantes's description of it, and he gives us to understand (what most readers have realised for themselves) that, in criticism of his contemporaries, Cervantes--like the rest of the world--is prone to err.

See also _Cervantes vascófilo ó sea Cervantes vindicado de su supuesto antivizcainismo por Julián Apráiz y Sáenz del Burgo, Natural de Vitoria y vizcaino, alavés y guipuzcoano por todos sus abolengos_. Nueva edición considerablemente aumentada (Vitoria, 1895), pp. 270-274. In a note (p. 274) to his letter addressed (April 23, 1884), to Sr. D. José Colá y Goiti, Dr. Apráiz--who courageously sets himself to prove that Cervantes, so far from disliking the Basques as has been generally supposed, had in fact the highest opinion of them--points out that _Los nueve libros de las Habidas_ take no more space than a 16mo. volume. "Y una vez leída la obra del poeta navarro insisto, tanto en que no hay más prosa que brevísimos renglones del argumento de la obra, como acerca del mérito que le reconocen Rosell, Gayangos y Vedia, y Gallardo, mucho más habida cuenta de la temprana edad de 20 años que tenía el poeta al escribir su poema, según el mismo dice al dirigirse á la señora (_i.e._ Doña Adriana de Egues y de Biamonte), á quien lo dedica. Parece que había muerto 3 años antes de la publicación de su poema."

If Arbolanche (or Arbolanches) really died in 1563, it is almost impossible that Cervantes can have had--as has been insinuated--any personal grudge against him. Perhaps he had read the _Habidas_ when he was a lad, was bored, and in his old age exaggerated his impression, without remembering very clearly the contents of the book. Or, it may be, as Dr. Apráiz suggests (_op. cit._, pp. 273-274), that Cervantes mistook Arbolanche (or Arbolanches) for the author of some dull pastoral whose name escaped him. If this be so, it is exceedingly regrettable that he should twice have made the same blunder: for the consequence has been that the name of Arbolanche (or Arbolanches), a poet of distinct merit, has become--among those who have not read him and who follow Cervantes blindly--a synonym for a ridiculous prose writer. Cp. the lines in the celebrated _Sátira contra los malos escritores de su tiempo_ by Jorge Pitillas (_i.e._ José Gerardo de Hervás y Cobo de la Torre):--

De Arbolanches descubre el genio tonto, Nombra á Pedrosa novelero infando Y en criticar á entrambos está pronto.

[54] See cap. iii., ter. 81-89.

Miren si puede en la galera hallarse Algún poeta desdichado acaso, Que á las fieras gargantas puede darse.-- Buscáronle, y hallaron á LOFRASO, Poeta militar, sardo, que estaba Desmayado á un rincón marchito y laso: Que á sus _diez libros de Fortuna_ andaba Añadiendo otros diez, y el tiempo escoge, Que más desocupado se mostraba. Gritó la chusma toda: Al mar se arroje, Vaya LOFRASO al mar sin resistencia. --Por Dios, dijo Mercurio, que me enoje. ¿Cómo? ¿y no será cargo de conciencia, Y grande, echar al mar tanta poesía, Puesto que aquí nos hunda su inclemencia? Viva _Lofraso_, en tanto que dé al día Apolo luz, y en tanto que los hombres Tengan discreta alegre fantasía. Tocante á tí, o _Lofraso_, los renombres, Y epítetos de agudo y de sincero, Y gusto que mi cómitre te nombres.-- Esto dijo Mercurio al caballero, El cual en la crujía en pie se puso Con un rebenque despiadado y fiero. Creo que de sus versos le compuso, Y no sé cómo fué, que en un momento Ó ya el cielo, ó _Lofraso_ lo dispuso, Salimos del estrecho á salvamento, Sin arrojar al mar poeta alguno: Tanto del sardo fué el merecimiento.

[55] Salvá y Mallen (_op. cit._, vol. ii., p. 143, no. 1817) states that the _Pastor de Fílida_ was reprinted at Lisbon in 1589. at Madrid in 1590, at Barcelona in 1613, and at Valencia in 1792: and there may be other editions.

[56] Sannazaro's _Arcadia_ was translated into French by Jean Martin in 1644; see Heinrich Koerting, _Geschichte des französischen Romans im XVII Jahrhundert_ (Oppeln und Leipzig, 1891), vol. i., p. 64. Montemôr's _Diana_ was translated into French by N. Colin in 1579. Nicolas de Montreux, who used the anagram of Olenix du Mont-Sacré, published the first volume of _Les Bergeries de Juliette_ in the same year as the _Galatea_ (1585).

[57] Cp. an interesting passage in the _Avant-propos_ to George Sand's _François le Champi_ (Paris, 1868), pp. 15-16:

--"Oui, oui, le monde naïf! dit-il, le monde inconnu, fermé à notre art moderne, et que nulle étude ne te fera exprimer à toi-même, paysan de nature, si tu veux l'introduire dans le domaine de l'art civilisé, dans le commerce intellectuel de la vie factice.

--Hélas! répondis-je, je me suis beaucoup préoccupé de cela. J'ai vu et j'ai senti par moi-même, avec tous les êtres civilisés, que la vie primitive était le rêve, l'idéal de tous les hommes et de tous les temps. Depuis les bergers de Longus jusqu'à ceux de Trianon, la vie pastorale est un Éden parfumé où les âmes tourmentées et lassées du tumulte du monde ont essayé de se réfugier. L'art, ce grand flatteur, ce chercheur complaisant de consolations pour les gens trop heureux, a traversé une suite ininterrompue de _bergeries_. Et sous ce titre: _Histoire des bergeries_, j'ai souvent désiré de faire un livre d'érudition et de critique où j'aurais passé en revue tous ces différents rêves champêtres dont les hautes classes se sont nourries avec passion.

J'aurais suivi dans leurs modifications toujours en rapport inverse de la dépravation des mœurs, et se faisant pures et sentimentales d'autant plus que la société était corrompue et impudente. Ce serait un traité d'art complet, car la musique, la peinture, l'architecture, la littérature dans toutes ses formes: théâtre, poëme, roman, églogue, chanson; les modes, les jardins, les costumes même, tout a subi l'engouement du rêve pastoral. Tous ces types de l'âge d'or, ces bergères qui sont des nymphes et puis des marquises, ces bergères de l'_Astrée_ qui passent par le Lignon de Florian, qui portent de poudre et du satin sous Louis XV., et auxquels Sedaine commence, à la fin de la monarchie, à donner des sabots, sont tous plus ou moins faux, et aujourd'hui ils nous paraissent niais et ridicules. Nous en avons fini avec eux, nous n'en voyons plus guère que sous forme de fantômes à l'opéra, et pourtant ils ont régné sur les cours et ont fait les délices des rois qui leur empruntaient la houlette et la panetière."

[58] See his _Apologie for Poetrie_ (Arber's reprint, London, 1869), p. 63.

[59] See vol. iii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1901), p. 8.

[60] See the discussion in book iv. of the _Galatea_.

[61] These borrowings have been pointed out by Sr. D. Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo in his _Historia de las ideas estéticas en España_ (Madrid, 1883-1891), tom. ii., vol i., p. 108-109: " ... el sentido de esta controversia es enteramente platónico, y derivado de León Hebreo, hasta en las palabras, de tal suerte, que podríamos suprimirlas, á no ser por la reverencia debida á todas las que salieron de la pluma de Cervantes, puesto que nada original se descubre en ellas, y aun la forma no es por cierto tan opulenta y pródiga de luz, como la de _El Cortesano_."

Sr. D. Adolfo y San Martín, in his Castilian translation of my _History of Spanish Literature_ (Madrid, 1901) which he has enriched with many valuable notes, observes (p. 325) that Cervantes, when writing the preface to the First Part of _Don Quixote_ in 1604, evidently did not know there were in existence at least three Spanish renderings of the _Dialoghi_--one of them, published at Madrid in 1590, being by the famous Inca, Garcilaso de la Vega.

For León Hebreo (or Judas Abarbanel) see Solomon Munk, _Mélanges de philosophie juive et arabe_ (Paris, 1857), pp. 522-528 and Dr. B. Zimmels, _Leo Hebraeus, ein jüdischer Philosoph der Renaissance; sein Leben, seine Werke und seine Lehren_ (Breslau, 1886).

[62] Yet the obvious resemblances between the _Arcadia_ and the _Galatea_ have been unaccountably overlooked by Francesco Torraca in a monograph entitled _Gl'imitatori stranieri di Jacopo Sannazaro_ (Seconda edizione accresciuta, Roma, 1882). "Non mi sembra, però, che la _Galatea_ e l' _Arcadia_ di Lope contengano imitazioni dello scrittore napoletano." (p. 23).

[63] See cap. iii., ter. 49-51.

[64] See Scherillo, _op. cit._, pp. ccliii.-cclx. for an interesting and striking enumeration (which might, as the commentator says, be extended) of Cervantes's debts to Sannazaro. It is quaint and significant to find that while Sannazaro in his _Prosa duodecima_ alludes apologetically, but with excellent reason, to _il mio picciolo Sebetho_, Cervantes in his sixth book, with no reason of any sort, introduces _las frescuras del apacible Sebeto_.

[65] Cervantes, as appears from a somewhat confused allusion early in the seventh chapter of the First Book of _Don Quixote_, seems to have been one of the few (besides the author) who enjoyed _Carlos famoso_. Zapata himself complained with a comic ruefulness that his forty thousand lines were not widely appreciated, and that he was out of pocket in consequence: "Yo pensé también que en haber hecho la historia del Emperador Carlos V., nuestro señor, en verso, y dirigídola á su pio y poderosísimo hijo, con tantas y tan verdaderas loas de ellos y nuestros españoles, que había hecho algo. Costóme cuatrocientos mil maravedís la ímpresión, y de ella no saqué sino saña y alongamiento de mi voluntad." Zapata, however, consoles himself with thinking that he is in good company and closes with a pious, confident moral: "De Homero se dice que en su vida no se hizo de él caso, _et sua riderunt tempora Meonidem_. Del autor del famoso libro poético de Amadís no se sabe haste hoy el nombre, honra de la nacion y lengua española, que en ninguna lengua hay tal poesía ni tan loable.... De manera que podemos decir todos el _sic vos non vobis_ de Virgilio, por lo cual todos de paso y como accesorio deben no poner su felicidad acá, donde no hay ninguna, sino atender á aquello que Dios les ha prometido; que si plantaren la viña de las buenas obras, gozarán perpétuamente del fruto de ella y otro no se la vendimiará." See Zapata's _Miscelánea_ in the _Memorial histórico español_ (Madrid, 1859), vol. xi., pp. 304-305. It is interesting to note that Zapata hazards no guess as to the authorship of _Amadís de Gaula_.

[66] _Op. cit._, pp. 60-61, _n._ 76.

[67] Sannazaro's latest and best editor, Signor Scherillo, is properly sceptical (_op. cit._, pp. clxxvi.-ccviii.) as to many current identifications of the personages in the _Arcadia_. It seems certain that Barcinio is Chariteo of Barcelona, and that Summontio is Pietro Summonto, the Neapolitan publisher of the book. It is probable that Meliseo is Giovanni Pontani, and that Massilia is the author's mother. It is possible that Sincero is Sannazaro. But, as Signor Scherillo drily observes, it is not easy to follow those who think that Sannazaro was Ergasto, Elpino, Clonico, Ophelia, and Eugenio--not "three gentlemen at once," but five. Other writers hold that Ophelia is Chariteo; that Pontano is Ergasto, Opico and Montano; that Eleuco is the Great Captain; and that Arcadia stands for France. These and similar absurdities are treated as they deserve in Signor Scherillo's masterly introduction.

[68] The supposition that Tirsi, in the _Pastor de Fílida_, was intended to represent Cervantes is noted by Navarrete (_op. cit._, p. 278), and on the authority of that biographer has been frequently repeated. It is right to say that Navarrete simply mentions the identification in passing, and that he is careful to throw all responsibility for it on Juan Antonio Mayáns who was the first to suggest the idea in the introduction to his reprint of the _Pastor de Fílida_ (Valencia, 1792), pp. xxxvii, lxxvii, and lxxx. The theory has been disproved by Juan Antonio Pellicer (_op. cit._, p. cxxxiii.)

There can be no reasonable doubt that the Tirsi of the _Pastor de Fílida_ is Francisco de Figueroa. It is absolutely certain that the Tirsi of the _Galatea_ is Figueroa: for, in the Second Book, Cervantes places it beyond question by ascribing to Tirsi two sonnets and a _canción_ by Figueroa. Cp. _Poesías de Francisco de Figueroa, llamado el Divino_ (Madrid, 1804).

(_a_) ¡Ay de quan ricas esperanzas vengo Al deseo más pobre y encogido, Que jamas encerró pecho herido De llaga tan mortal, como yo tengo! Ya de mi fe, ya de mi amor tan luengo, Que Fili sabe bien quan firme ha sido, Ya del fiero dolor con que he vivido, Y en quien la vida á mi pesar sostengo; Otro más dulce galardon no quiero, Sino que Fili un poco alce los ojos A ver lo que mi rostro le figura: Que si le mira, y su color primero No muda, y aun quizá moja sus ojos, Bien serán más que piedra helada y dura. (p. 17)

(_b_) La amarillez y la flaqueza mia, El comer poco y el dormir perdido, La falta quasi entera del sentido El débil paso, y la voz ronca y fría; La vista incierta, y el más largo día En suspiros y quejas repartido, Alguno pensará que haya nacido De la pasada trabajosa vía: Y sabe bien amor, que otro tormento Me tiene tal; y otra razón más grave Mi antigua gloria en tal dolor convierte: Amor solo lo sabe, y yo lo siento: Si Fili lo supiese: ¡o mi suave Tormento, o dolor dulce, o dulce muerte! (p. 15)

(_c_) Sale la aurora de su fértil manto Rosas suaves esparciendo y flores, Pintando el cielo va de mil colores, Y la tierra otro tanto, Quando la dulce pastorcilla mía, Lumbre y gloria del día, No sin astucia y arte, De su dichoso albergue alegre parte. (pp. 45-46).

[69] _Op. cit._, p. 66.

[70] Juan Antonio Mayáns declares (_op. cit._, p. xxxvii) that Damon is Figueroa; but, as previously stated (p. xxxi, _n._ 2), his mistake is shown by Pellicer.

[71] This is not, however, the opinion of Eustaquio Fernández de Navarrete (_op. cit._, p. xxxii): "Puede sospecharse que la primer heroína de su novela no fué doña Catalina Palacios de Salazar, con quien Cervantes casó á poco tiempo de publicar su libro, sino que lo escribió en Portugal durante sus amores con una dama de aquel país, á quien debió grandes obligaciones; y que después cuando volvió a España, al trabar relaciones con doña Catalina, retocó la obra y la acomodó al nuevo sugeto." This story of Cervantes's relations with an anonymous Portuguese lady, supposed to be the mother of his illegitimate daughter, was generally accepted till 1895. It was never anything more than a wild guess and, thanks to Dr. Pérez Pastor, we now know that there is no truth in it.

On the other hand Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez, in his _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Cádiz, 1876), pronounces very emphatically in favour of the current identifications as regards the hero and the heroine: "En Elicio se ve con mucha perfección la imagen de Cervantes. Galanteador, tímido, discreto, delicado, sentidisimo, su amor es tan casto como los pensamientos de su alma. Adora más que ama; venera más que pretende" (p. 69). "Ningún otro personaje puede encubrir á Elicio sino Cervantes: ninguna otra señora puede velarse bajo la figura de Galatea sino Doña Catalina de Palacios. Son los retratos al natural de dos seres privilegiados, de dos personas ilustres, de dos amantes que más ó menos encubiertamente se tributaban el homenaje de su adoracion." (p. 71.)

It will be observed that Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez takes things very seriously.

[72] See p. 6 of the present volume.

[73] See the _Dorotea_, Act 2, sc. 2: "¿Qué mayor riqueza para una mujer que verse eternizada? Porque la hermosura se acaba, y nadie que la mire sin ella cree que la tuvo; y los versos de la alabanza son eternos testigos que viven en su nombre. La Diana de Montemayor fué una dama de Valencia de Don Juan, junto á León, y Ezla, su rio, y ella serán eternos por su pluma. Así la Fílida de Montalvo, y la Galatea de Cervantes, la Camila de Garcilaso, la Violante de Camoes, la Silvia de Bernaldez, la Filis de Figueroa, la Leonor de Corte-Real no eran damas imaginarias."

[74] It is conjectured, for instance, that Lenio was intended for Pedro Liñán de Riaza, and that Daranio was meant for Diego Durán. These are simple guesses.

[75] I do not profess to have counted the number, which I give on the authority of Carlos Barroso: see his letter to Sr. Ramón León Máinez, entitled _Mais noticias Cervanticas_, in the _Crónica de los Cervantistas_ (Cádiz, 1872), vol. i., pp. 166 et seqq.

[76] See _L'Avthevr a la Bergere Astrée_ at the beginning of the First Part of _Astrée_, I quote from vol. i. of the Paris edition of 1647.

[77] This, however, may be an unintentional slip into realism. But it has all the effect of humour, and may fairly be bracketed with a passage from the fourth book of Sidney's _Arcadia_, quoted by Professor Rennert (_op. cit._, p. 11, _n._ 29): "O my dun-cow, I did think some evil was towards me ever since the last day thou didst run away from me, and held up thy tail so pitifully."

[78] See Francisco Martínez Marina's _Ensayo histórico-crítico sobre el origen y progresos de las lenguas: señaladamente del romance castellano_ in the _Memorias de la Real Academia de la Historia_ (Madrid, 1805), vol. iv., pp. 61-62: "Los primeros que se señalaron, á mi parecer, en esos vicios, que es en preferir su gusto é ingenio á las reglas del arte antigua, y en consultar más con su imaginación que con los modelos del excelente lenguaje, y en pretender hacerse únicos y singulares en su clase por la novedad de sus plumas, fueron, según yo pienso, y permítaseme decir lo que ninguno ha dicho tan claramente hasta ahora, los insignes Mariana y Cervantes.

¡Qué nuevo y extraño es el modo de hablar del primero. ¿En qué se parece al de nuestros mejores escritores castellanos? ¡Quán afectado su estilo! ¡artificiosas las arengas! ¡estudiados los períodos y aun las palabras, y hasta la colocacion de ellas!... Pues ¡y Cervantes quanto ha latinizado! Véase la Galatea"....

[79] In the Second Book of the _Galatea_, Silveria is said to have green eyes, Attentive readers will remember that Loaysa has green eyes in _El Celoso extremeño_: see vol. viii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1902), p. 24. Green would seem to have been a favourite colour with Cervantes: see a paper entitled _Lo Verde_, published by a writer who uses the pseudonym of Doctor Thebussem, in _La España moderna_ (Madrid, March, 1894), vol. lxiii., pp. 43-60.

[80] See vol. viii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1902), pp. 163-164.

[81] See vol. iii. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1902), pp. 52-53.

[82] See the last paragraph of the _Galatea_: "El fin deste amoroso cuento y historia, con los sucessos de Galercio, Lenio y Gelasia: Arsindo y Maurisa; Grisaldo, Artandro y Rosaura: Marsilio y Belisa, con otras cosas sucedidas á los pastores hasta aquí nombrados, en la segunda parte desta historia se prometen. La qual, si con apazibles voluntades esta primera viere rescebida, tendrá atrevimiento de salir con brevedad a ser vista y juzgada de los ojos y entendimientos de las gentes."

[83] _Op. cit._, vol. ii., p. 119.

[84] Sr. Asensio y Toledo has suggested (_Cervantes y sus obras_, pp. 382-386) that Cervantes's reference in _Don Quixote_ to Bernardo González de Bobadilla's _Nimphas y Pastores de Henares_, a pastoral published at Alcalá in 1587, denotes some irritation against one whom he possibly regarded as a poacher. What really happened was that, during the diverting and important scrutiny of the Knight's library, the Barber came upon González de Bobadilla's book, together with Bernardo de la Vega's _Pastor de Iberia_ and Bartolomé López de Enciso's _Desengaño de los celos_. The Priest directed the Barber to "hand them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall never have done." On the strength of this, some genial contemporaries seem to have charged Cervantes with being jealous of these obscure writers. Cp. the passage in the _Viaje del Parnaso_:--

Ni llamado, ni escogido Fué el gran pastor de Iberia, el gran BERNARDO Que DE LA VEGA tiene el apellido. Fuiste envidioso, descuidado y tardo, Y á las ninfas de Henares y pastores, Como á enemigo les tiraste un dardo. Y tienes tu poetas tan peores Que estos en tu rebaño, que imagino Que han de sudar si quieren ser mejores. (cap. iv. ter. 169-171.)

[85] As Cervantes intended to dedicate the new _Don Quixote_ (and, presumably, the new _Galatea_) to the Conde de Lemos, he may very naturally have thought that it would be out of place to mention either of these works in the dedication of the _Viaje del Parnaso_ to Rodrigo de Tapia. But the short address to the reader gave him the opportunity which no one used more cleverly--when he had any announcement to make. Moreover, he had another excellent opening when he referred to the _Galatea_ in the text of the _Viaje del Parnaso_:

Yo corté con mi ingenio aquel vestido Con que al mundo la hermosa Galatea Salió para librarse del olvido. (cap. iv. ter. 5.)

[86] " ...luego yra el gran Persiles, y luego las semanas del jardín, y luego la segunda parte de la Galatea, si tanta carga pueden lleuar mis ancianos ombros."

[87] Lemos's liking for the _Galatea_ is mentioned in the Letter Dedicatory to _Persiles y Sigismunda_: "si a dicha, por buena ventura mía, que ya no sería ventura, sino milagro, me diesse el cielo vida, las (_i.e._ Semanas del Jardín y Bernardo) verá y con ellas fin de la Galatea, de quien se està aficionado Vuessa Excelencia...."

[88] See vol. iv. of the present edition (Glasgow, 1901), p. 8.

[89] See note (2) above.

[90] It may be convenient to point out that the _Arcadia_ mentioned in the text is a play published in the _Trezena Parte de las Comedias de Lope de Vega Carpio_ (Madrid, 1620) and should not be confounded with Lope's pastoral novel, the _Arcadia_ (Madrid, 1598). This warning will appear unnecessary to Spanish scholars. But the bibliography of Lope's works is so vast and intricate that a slip may easily be made. For example, Mr. Henry Edward Watts (_Life of Miguel de Cervantes_, London, 1891, p. 144) at one time mistook Lope's _Dorotea_ for the _Arcadia_, assuming the former to be a pastoral novel. This very curious error is corrected in the same writer's _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works_ (London, 1895, p. 200, _n._) with the remark that "if any blunder is excusable in a writer it is that of not remembering the name of one of Lope's multitudinous productions." In the same work we are assured (p. 111) that of all Lope's plays "there are not half-a-dozen whose names are remembered to-day out of Spain; nor one character, scene or line which any one not a member of the Spanish Royal Academy cares to recall." If ignorance has really reached this point, the caution given in the opening words of this note may be useful to the general reader.

[91] Sr. D. Ramón León Máinez, in an exuberant paragraph, sketches out (_op. cit._, p. 71) the continuation as he believes Cervantes to have conceived it: "Si más tarde hubiera cumplido su promesa de estampar la segunda parte de aquella obra bellísima, que indudablemente dejó escrita al morir, y fué una de las producciones suyas inéditas que se perdieron; cuán deleitosa y dulcemente hubiera hablado en ella de la prosecución de sus amores, de la fina correspondencia en lo sucesivo para con él por parte de su idolatrada doncella, del allanamiento de dificultades, del progreso de sus aspiraciones y de la realización de sus deseos! Allí nos hubiera descrito con la perfección, dulzura y encanto que él sabíalo hacer, el regocijo de su alma, la felicidad de su amada, el vencimiento de su contrario, los esmeros y desvelos de los amigos, el beneplácito de sus deudos, y su bien logrado casamiento con doncella tan ilustre, de tal hermosura y virtud adornada. El relato de las bodas estaría hecho en la segunda parte de _Galatea_ con encantadora sencillez, y con amenidad incomparable, como trabajo al fin de mano tan maestra y acreditada."

This prophecy tends to allay one's regret for the non-appearance of the _Galatea_; but it is exceedingly possible that Sr. Máinez knows no more of Cervantes's intentions than the rest of us.

[92] For particulars, see Professor Rennert, _op. cit._, pp. 64-119.

[93] _Vida de Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra_ (Cádiz, 1876): "_La Galatea_ de Cervantes á todas las producciones pastoriles sobrepuja en las dotes inventivas. No mentemos esa innumerabilidad de composiciones que aparecieron antes y después de 1584. Comparar con ellas la concepción de Cervantes, sería ofender la memoria de este autor esclarecido" (p. 67). "_La Galatea_ no sólo es una obra superior entre todas las pastorales españolas, mirada en cuanto á la inventiva: es también mejor que las que antes y después de su aparición se publicaron, considerada bajo el punto de vista de la forma y de los méritos literarios" (p. 79). Cp. also a passage on p. 65: "Tal vez ninguno de los idiomas modernos pueda ofrecer tan preciadas concepciones como en este género presentan las letras castellanas." The biographer notes the weak points of Montemôr's _Diana_, of Gil Polo's _Diana enamorada_, of Lope de Vega's _Arcadia_ (the novel, not the play), of Suárez de Figueroa's _Constante Amarilis_, of Valbuena's _Siglo de oro_, and concludes (p. 68): "el talento de Cervantes era tan grande, tan superior, tan de eximio y delicado gusto, que supo evitar todos esos vicios, olvidarse de todos los defectos, para imitar lo bueno, y ofrecer una obra, en lo posible, perfecta. Vense en ella acción dramática, vitalidad, episodios interesantísimos, escenas amenas, gracia, seducción, hermosura. El ánimo se solaza y dulcemente se regocija al presenciar tal conjunto de preciosidades."

Sr. Máinez praises (p. 80), as a model of style, a passage in the First Book of the _Galatea_, beginning: "En las riberas de Betis, caudalosísimo río que la gran Vandalia enriquece, nació Lisandro (que éste es el nombre desdichado mío), y de tan nobles padres, cual pluguiera al soberano Dios que en más baja fortuna fuera engendrado." Scherillo points out, however (_op. cit._, p. cclv), that this is modelled upon the opening of Sincero's story in the _Prosa settima_ of Sannazaro's _Arcadia_: "Napoli (sicome ciaschuno molte volte può avere udito) è nela più fructifera et dilectevole parte de Italia, al lito del mare posta, famosa et nobilissima città.... In quella dunque nacqui io, ove non da oscuro sangue, ma (se dirlo non mi si disconviene) secondo che per le più celebre parti di essa città le insignie de' miey predecessori chiaramente dimostrano: da antichissima et generosa prosapia disceso, era tra gli altri miei coetanei forse non il minimo riputato."

[94] See August Wilhelm von Schlegel's _Sämmtliche Werke_ (Leipzig, 1846-1847), vol. i., p. 339 for a sonnet on the _Galatea_:--

Wie blauer Himmel glänzt auf Thales Grüne Ein heller Strom fleusst lieblich auf und nieder Von Berg und Wald verdeckt, erscheint er wieder, Und spiegelt klar der Landschaft bunte Bühne.

Wer ist die Blonde dort mit sitt'ger Miene? Wie tönen süss die Leid- und Liebes- Lieder! Mit ihren Heerden nah'n die Hirtenbrüder, Und jeder zeigt, wie er der Holden diene.

O Lust und Klang! o linde Aetherlüfte! Im zarten Sinn sinnreich beschneider Liebe So Himmlisches, doch Kindlichem Verwandtes.

Fremd wären uns die feinsten Blumendüfte, Wenn Galatea nicht sie uns beschreibe, Die Göttliche des göttlichsten Cervantes.

Friedrich von Schlegel is no less rapturous in prose. See his corybantics in the periodical entitled _Athenaeum_ (Berlin, 1799), vol. ii., pp. 325-326. After referring to Cervantes as the author of _Don Quixote_, Schlegel continues: "der aber doch auch noch andre ganz ehr-und achtbare Werke erfunden und gebildet hat, die dereinst wohl ihre Stelle im Allerheiligsten der romantischen Kunst finden werden. Ich meyne die liebliche und sinnreiche Galatea, wo das Spiel des menschlichen Lebens sich mit beschneidner Kunst und leiser Symmetrie zu einem künstlich schönen Gewebe ewiger Musik und zarter Sehnsucht ordnet, indem es flieht. Es ist der Blüthekranz der Unschuld und der frühsten noch schücternen Jugend." He repeated his enthusiastic appreciation in the following year (_Athenaeum_, Berlin, 1800, vol. iii., p. 80): "Da Cervantes zuerst die Feder statt des Degens ergriff, den er nicht mehr führen konnte, dichtete er die Galatea, eine wunderbar grosse Composition von ewiger Musik der Fantasie und der Liebe, den zartesten und lieblichsten aller Romane." ...

[95] See William H. Prescott, _Biographical and Critical Miscellanies_ (London, 1845), p. 114.

[96] See _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works_ by Henry Edward Watts. (London, 1895), p. 88.

[97] See vol. iii., p. xxvi, and vol. vii., p. xiv, _n._ 2 of the present edition (Glasgow, 1901-1902). Cp. M. Alfred Morel-Fatio's interesting monograph, _Ambrosio de Salazar et l'étude de l'espagnol sous Louis XIII_. (Paris and Toulouse, 1901).

[98] It may be interesting to read the address _A los estudiosos y amadores de las lenguas estrangeras_ at the beginning of his reprint: "Llevome la curiosidad a España el año passado, y mouiome la misma estando allí, a que yo buscasse libros de gusto y entretenimiento, y que fuessen de mayor prouecho, y conformes a lo que es de mi profession, y también para poder contentar a otros curiosos. Ya yo sabia de algunos que otras vezes auian sido traydos por acá, pero como tuuiesse principalmente en mi memoria a este de la Galatea, libro ciertamente digno (en su género) de ser acogido y leydo de los estudiosos de la lengua que habla, tanto por su eloquente y claro estilo, como por la sutil inuencion, y lindo entretenimiento, de entricadas auenturas y apazibles historias que contiene. De más desto por ser del author que inuento y escriuio, aquel libro, no sin razón, intitulado _El ingenioso hidalgo don Quixote_. Busquelo casi por toda Castilla y aun por otras partes, sin poderle hallar, hasta que passando a Portugal, y llegando a vna ciudad fuera de camino llamada Euora, tope con algunos pocos exemplares: compre vno dellos, mas leyendole vi que la impression, que era de Lisboa, tenía muchas erratas, no solo en los caracteres, pero aun faltauan algunos versos y renglones de prosa enteros. Corregilo y remendelo, lo mejor que supe; también lo he visto en la presente impression, para que saliesse vn poco más limpio y correcto que antes. Ruego os pues lo recibays con tan buena voluntad, como es la que tuue siempre de seruiros, hasta que y donde yo pueda. C. Oudin."

[99] The following statement occurs in _Miguel de Cervantes, his life & works by Henry Edward Watts_ (London, 1895), p. 179, _n._ 1: "This French ambassador, called by the Spanish commentators the _Duque de Umena_, must have been the Duc de Mayenne, who was sent by the Regent Anne of Austria, to conclude the double marriage of the Prince of Asturias (afterwards Philip IV.) with Isabelle de Bourbon, and of Louis XIII. of France with the Infanta Ana, eldest daughter of Philip III."

The familiar formula--"must have been"--is out of place here. The necessity does not exist. It seems unlikely that Márquez Torres can have met the members of Mayenne's suite on February 25, 1615; for Mayenne's mission ended two and a half years previously. Mayenne and his attachés left Madrid on August 31, 1612: see Luis Cabrera de Córdoba, _Relaciones de las cosas sucedidas en la Córte de España, desde 1599 hasta 1614_ (Madrid, 1857), p. 493, and François-Tommy Perrens, _Les Mariages espagnols sous le règne de Henri IV. et la régence de Marie de Médicis, 1602-1615_ (Paris, 1869), pp. 403 and 416-417. "Umena" is, as everybody knows, the old Spanish form of Mayenne's title; but no Spaniard ever dreamed of applying this title to the ambassador of whom Márquez Torres speaks. As appears from a letter (dated February 18, 1615) to "old Æsop Gondomar," the special envoy to whom Márquez Torres refers was known as "Mr. de Silier": see Navarrete, _op. cit._, pp. 493-494. Mr. de Silier was the brother of Nicolas Brûlart, Marquis de Sillery, Grand Chancellor of France from September, 1607, to May, 1616. The special envoy figures in French history as the Commandeur Noel Brûlart de Sillery: he and his suite reached Madrid on February 15, 1615 (Navarrete, _op. cit._, p. 493), and they left that city on March 19, 1615 (Perrens, _op. cit._, p. 519). One might have hoped that, as M. de Sillery founded the mission of Sillery near Quebec, his name would be known to all educated Englishmen. His death on September 26, 1640, is mentioned by his confessor, St. Vincent de Paul, in a letter to M. Codoing, dated November 15, 1640. See _Lettres de S. Vincent de Paul_ (Paris, 1882), vol. i., p. 100.

I do not know who the above-mentioned "Regent Anne of Austria" is supposed to be. The French Regent who sent Mayenne and Sillery to Spain was Marie de Médicis, mother of Louis XIII. Her regency ended in 1615. In 1615 Anne of Austria, sister of Philip IV., became the wife of Louis XIII. Her regency began in 1643. It would almost seem as though the earlier French Queen-Regent had been mistaken for her future Spanish daughter-in-law, or, as though the writer were unaware of the fact that the "Regent Anne of Austria" and the "Infanta Ana" were really one and the same person. But the whole passage indicates great confusion of thought, as well as strange misunderstanding of Navarrete's words and of the document printed by him.

An old anecdote, concerning Cervantes and a French Minister at the Spanish Court, is inaccurately reproduced in _Camoens: his Life and Lusiads. A Commentary by Richard F. Burton_ (London, 1881), vol. i., p. 71: "Cervantes, who had been excommunicated, whispered to M. de Boulay, French Ambassador, Madrid, 'Had it not been for the Inquisition, I should have made my book much more amusing.'" Sir Richard Burton evidently quoted from memory, and, as his version is incorrect, it may be advisable to give the idle tale as it appeared originally in _Segraisiana ou Mélange d'histoire et de littérature. Recueilli des Entretiens de Monsieur de Segrais de l'Académie Françoise_ (La Haye, 1722), p. 83: "Monsieur du Boulay avoit accompagné Monsieur * * * dans son Ambassade d'Espagne dans le tems que Cervantes qui mourut en 1618 vivoit encore: il m'a dit que Monsieur l'Ambassadeur fit un jour compliment à Cervantes sur la grande réputation qu'il s'étoit acquise par son _Dom Quixotte_, au de-là des monts: & que Cervantes dit à l'oreille à Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, sans l'Inquisition j'aurois fait mon Livre beaucoup plus divertissant."

It will be observed that M. du Boulay was not Ambassador; that he does not pretend to have heard Cervantes's remark; that he merely repeats the rumour of what Cervantes was alleged to have whispered to M. * * * (who may, or may not, be M. de Sillery); and that he does not mention the Ambassador as his authority for the story. Moreover, Jean Regnauld de Segrais was born in 1624, and died in 1701. Assuming that he was no more than thirty when he met M. du Boulay, this would mean that the story was told nearly forty years after the event. If the volume entitled _Segraisiana_ was compiled towards the end of Segrais' life, we are at a distance of some eighty years from the occurrence. In either case, there is an ample margin for errors of every kind.

[100] Gregorio Mayáns y Siscar suggests (_op. cit._, vol. i., pp. 28-29) that the _Aprobación_, though signed by Márquez Torres, was really written by Cervantes himself: "57 ... Pensarà el Letor que quien dijo èsto, fué el Licenciado Màrquez Torres; no fué sino el mismo Miguèl de Cervantes Saavedra: porque el estilo del Licenciado Màrquez Torres, es metaforico, afectadillo, i pedantesco; como lo manifiestan los _Discursos Consolatorios que escriviò a Don Christoval de Sandoval i Rojas, Duque de Uceda en la Muerte de Don Bernardo de Sandoval i Rojas, su hijo, primer Marquès de Belmonte_; i al contrario el estilo de la _Aprovacion_, es puro, natural, i cortesano, i tan parecido en todo al de Cervantes, que no ai cosa en él que le dístinga. El Licenciado Màrquez era Capellán, i Maestro de Pages de Don Bernardo Sandoval i Rojas, Cardenal, Arzobispo de Toledo, Inquisidor General; Cervantes era mui favorecido del mismo. Con que ciertamente eran entrambos amigos.

"58. Supuesta la amistad, no era mucho, que usase Cervantes de semejante libertad. Contèntese pues el Licenciado Màrquez Torres, con que Cervantes le hizo partícipe de la gloria de su estilo. I veamos que moviò a Cervantes a querer hablar, como dicen, por boca de ganso. No fué otro su designio, sino manifestar la idea de su Obra, la estimacion de ella, i de su Autor en las Naciones estrañas, i su desvalimiento en la propia."

Navarrete protests (_op. cit._, pp. 491-493) against the theory put forward by Mayáns, notes that Márquez Torres published his _Discursos_ in 1626 when _culteranismo_ was in full vogue, and contends that he may have written in much better style eleven years earlier.

It would be imprudent to give great importance to arguments based solely on alleged differences of style. That Márquez Torres was in holy orders, and that he was appointed chaplain to a prelate so virtuous and clear-sighted as the Cardinal-Archbishop of Toledo are strong presumptions in his favour. Nothing that is known of him tends to discredit his testimony. It would be most unjustifiable to assume of any one in his responsible position that he was capable of inventing an elaborate story from beginning to end, and of publishing a tissue of falsehoods to the world. Nor can we lightly suppose that Cervantes would lend himself to such trickery. The probability surely is that there is some good foundation for the anecdote, though perhaps the tale may have lost nothing in the telling.

Still, the history of literature furnishes analogous examples of persons who tampered with preliminary matter--dedications and the like--and stuffed these pages with praises of themselves. Le Sage evidently refers to a recent incident in real life when he interpolates the following passage into the revised text of _Le Diable boiteux_ (Rouen, 1728), pp. 37-38: "A propos d'Epîtres Dédicatoires, ajoûta le Démon, il faut que je vous raporte un trait assez singulier. Une femme de la Cour aiant permis qu'on lui dédiât un ouvrage, en voulut voir la Dédicace avant qu'on l'imprimât, & ne s'y trouvant pas assez bien loüée à son gré, elle prit la peine d'en composer une de sa façon & de l'envoier à l'Auteur pour la mettre à la tête de son ouvrage."

A somewhat similar instance is afforded by La Rochefoucauld, who asked Madame de Sablé to review his _Pensées_ in the _Journal des Savants_. The lady thoughtfully submitted the manuscript of her article to the author, and the result is recorded by Hippolyte Cocheris, _Table méthodique et analytique des articles du Journal des Savants depuis sa réorganisation en 1816 jusqu'en 1858 inclusivement précédée d'une notice historique sur ce journal depuis sa fondation jusqu'à nos jours_ (Paris, 1860), pp. vi.-vii. "Larochefoucauld prit au mot Mme de Sablé; il usa très-librement de son article, il supprima les critiques, garda les éloges, et le fit insérer dans le _Journal des Savants_ (1665, p. 116 et suiv.), ainsi amendé et pur de toute prétention à l'impartialité."

[101] The full title of d'Urfé's book is _L'Astrée, où par plusieurs histoires et sous personnes de bergers et d'autres sont déduits les divers effects de l'Honneste Amitié_. The date of publication has long been doubtful; it is now, apparently, established that the First Part, consisting of twelve books, was originally issued in 1607. Only one copy of this edition is known to exist. For a description of this unique volume, discovered by M. Edwin Trossat at Augsburg in 1869, see the _Catalogue des livres du baron James de Rothschild_ (Paris, 1887), vol. ii. p. 197, no. 1527.

D'Urfé had been preceded by Nicolas de Montreux who, under the anagrammatic pseudonym of Olenix du Mont-Sacré, had published the five volumes entitled _Les Bergeries de Juliette_ at Paris between 1585 and 1598: see Heinrich Koerting, _Geschichte des französichen Romans im XVII. Jahrhundert_ (Oppeln und Leipzig), vol. i., pp. 66-68. But, though Jean-Louis Guez de Balzac declares (_Œuvres complètes_, Paris, 1665, vol. ii. p. 634) that _Les Bergeries de Juliette_ was long preferred to _Astrée_ by French provincials during the seventeenth century, Montreux found so little favour in Paris, that he abandoned pastoralism, and took to writing a history of the Turks instead: see Émile Roy, _La Vie et les œuvres de Charles Sorel, sieur de Souvigny, 1602-1674_ (Paris, 1891), pp. 115-116. It was d'Urfé who made the pastoral fashionable. Part of his immediate vogue may be attributed to the fact that his Euric, Galatée, Alcidon and Daphnide were supposed to represent Henri IV., Marguerite de Valois, the Duc de Bellegarde, and the Princesse de Conti. These dubious identifications, however, would not explain the enthusiasm of readers so different in taste and character, and so far apart in point of time, as St. François de Sales, Madame de Sévigné, Prévost (the author of _Manon Lescaut_), and Rousseau. There is no accounting for tastes, and perhaps Márquez Torres's polite Frenchman sincerely admired the _Galatea_; but indeed he had left a far better pastoral at home. _Astrée_ greatly exceeds the _Galatea_ in achievement, importance, and significance. M. Paul Morillot is within the mark in saying: "_L'Astrée_ de d'Urfé est vraiment notre premier roman; elle est l'ancêtre, la source de tous les autres" (_Le Roman en France_, p. 1). He perhaps grants too much by his admission (p. 27) that "de nos jours _L'Astrée_ est tout à fait oubliée." A useful _Index de "L'Astrée"_ by Saint-Marc Girardin proves that the book has had passionate admirers down to our time: see the _Revue d'Histoire littéraire de la France_ (Paris, 1898), vol. v., pp. 458-483 and 629-646. The _Index_ has an interesting prefatory note by M. Paul Bonnefon.

[102] Besides (1) the _princeps_, published at Alcalá de Henares by Juan Gracián in 1585 there are the following editions of the _Galatea_: (2) Lixboa, Impressa con licencia de la Sancta Inquisición, 1590; (3) Paris, Gilles Robinot, 1611; (4) Valladolid, Francisco Fernández de Cordona, 1617; (5) Baeza, Juan Bautista Montoya, 1617; (6) Lisboa, Antonio Álvarez, 1618; (7) Barcelona, Sebastián de Cormellas, 1618; (8) Madrid, Juan de Zúñiga (Francisco Manuel de Mena), 1736; (9) Madrid, la Viuda de Manuel Fernández, 1772; (10) Madrid, Antonio de Sancha, 1784; (11) Madrid, Imprenta de Vega, 1805; (12) Madrid, los hijos de Da. Catalina Piñuela, 1829; (13) Paris, Baudry, 1835; (14) Paris, Baudry, 1841; (15) Madrid, Rivadeneyra, 1846; (16) Madrid, Rivadeneyra, 1863; (17) Madrid, Gaspar y Roig, 1866; (18) Madrid, Álvarez hermanos, 1875; (19) Madrid, Nicolás Moya, 1883.

It may be well to state that in Nos. (12), (13), (14), (15), (16) and (17) the _Galatea_ is not printed separately, but forms part of collections of Cervantes's works.

It has hitherto been uncertain whether No. (5) really existed or not. It is noted by Nicolás Antonio (_op. cit._, vol. ii., p. 105). This Baeza edition is also mentioned under the heading of _Romans historiques_ by Gordon de Percel who, in all likelihood, simply copied the note from Antonio: see _De l'usage des romans où l'on fait voir leur utilité & leurs differens caracteres avec une_ _Bibliothèque des romans, accompagnée de remarques critiques sur leur choix et leurs éditions_ (Amsterdam, 1734), vol. ii., p. 108. Despite the imprint on the title-page, this work was actually issued at Rouen: see a valuable article in the _Revue d'Histoire littéraire de la France_ (Paris, 1900, vol. vii., pp. 546-589) by M. Paul Bonnefon who describes Gordon de Percel--the pseudonym of the Abbé Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy--as an odious example of an odious type, carrying on the _métier d'espion sous couleur d'érudit_.

There can now, apparently, be no doubt that an edition of the _Galatea_ was printed at Baeza in 1617, for Rius (_op. cit._, vol. i., p. 104) states that he possesses a letter from the Marqués de Jerez, dated September 14, 1890, in which the writer explicitly says a copy of this edition was stolen from him at Irún. I do not at all understand what Rius can mean by the oracular sentence which immediately precedes this statement: "No tengo noticia de ejemplar alguno, ni sé que nadie la (_i.e._ la edición) haya visto."

It has been remarked in the text of this Introduction (p. xxxv) that Cervantes applies the word _discreta_ with distressing frequency to his heroine and her sister shepherdesses. The repetition of this adjective appears to have produced a considerable impression on the Lisbon publisher, Antonio Álvarez, for his edition--No. (6) in the above list--is entitled _La discreta Galatea_. No. (5) is also said to be entitled _La discreta Galatea_. But on this point no one, save the Marqués de Jerez de los Caballeros, can speak with any certainty.

[103] Koerting (_op. cit._, vol. i., p. 65) states that d'Audignier translated the _Galatea_ into French in 1618. This is a mistake. Koerting was probably thinking of the _Novelas exemplares_. Six of these (_La Española inglesa_, _Las dos Doncellas_, _La Señora Cornelia_, _La Ilustre fregona_, _El Casamiento engañoso_, and the _Coloquio de los perros_) were translated by d'Audignier in 1618, the remaining tales being rendered by Rosset.

[104] Now best remembered, perhaps, by Giovanni Martini's setting of the _romance_--

Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment--

which, sung by that incomparable artist, Madame Pauline Viardot-Garcia (sister of Malibran, and wife of the well-known Spanish scholar, Louis Viardot), delighted our fathers and mothers. It may be worth noting that the song is assigned to the goatherd in _Célestine: Nouvelle Espagnole_. Readers of contemporary literature will remember the adaptation of the opening words by the Baron Desforges in M. Paul Bourget's _Mensonges_.

[105] _Causeries du lundi_ (Troisième édition, Paris), vol. iii., p. 236. Joubert's appreciation of Florian's talent is practically the same as Sainte-Beuve's. In his _Pensées_ (titre xxiv., art. xxxi.), he expresses himself thus, concerning Florian's extremely free rendering of _Don Quixote_, first published in 1799: "Cervantes a, dans son livre, une bonhomie bourgeoise et familière, à laquelle l'élégance de Florian est antipathique. En traduisant _Don Quichotte_, Florian a changé le mouvement de l'air, la clef de la musique de l'auteur original. Il a appliqué aux épanchements d'une veine abondante et riche les sautillements et les murmures d'un ruisseau: petits bruits, petits mouvements, très-agréables sans doute quand il s'agit d'un filet d'eau resserré qui roule sur des cailloux, mais allure insupportable et fausse quand on l'attribue à une eau large qui coule à plein canal sur un sable très-fin."

[106] _Causeries du lundi_ (Troisième Edition, Paris), vol. iii., p. 238. See also M. Anatole France, _La Vie littéraire_ (Paris, 1889), p. 194. "Longtemps, longtemps après la mort de Florian, Rose Gontier, devenue la bonne mère Gontier, amusait ses nouvelles camarades comme une figure d'un autre âge. Fort dévote, elle n'entrait jamais en scène sans faire deux ou trois fois dans la coulisse le signe de la croix. Toutes les jeunes actrices se donnaient le plaisir de lutiner celle qui jouait si au naturel _Ma tante Aurore_; elles l'entouraient au foyer et lui refaisaient bien souvent la même question malicieuse:

--Mais est-ce bien possible, grand'maman Gontier, est-il bien vrai que M. de Florian vous battait?

Et, pour toute réponse et explication, toute retenue qu'elle était, la bonne maman Gontier leur disait dans sa langue du dix-huitième siècle:

--C'est, voyez-vous, mes enfants, que celui-là ne payait pas."

[107] Rius (_op. cit._, vol. ii., 319) mentions three editions of Pellicer's translation, the latest being dated 1830. A reprint is said to have been issued at Paris in 1841. On p. xvii of the 1814 edition--the only one within my reach--Casiano Pellicer suggests that Cervantes introduced Diego Durán into the _Galatea_ under the name of Daranio: "Puedese presumir que el Daranio, cuyas bodas refiere tan menudamente, sea Diego Durán, á quien supone natural de Toledo ó de su tierra, y alaba también en su canto de Calíope de gran poeta."

[108] The title of this arrangement is _Los Enamorados ó Galatea y sus bodas. Historia pastoral comenzada por Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Abreviada después, y continuada y últimamente concluida por D. Cándido María Trigueros_ (Madrid, 1798).

[109] The only translations of the _Galatea_ are the following:--

English (by Gordon Willoughby James Gyll), London, 1867, 1892.

German (by F. Sigismund), Zwickau, 1830; (by A. Keller and F. Notter), Stuttgart, 1840; (by F. M. Duttenhofer), Stuttgart, 1841.

[110] Gyll's name is very naturally omitted from the _Dictionary of National Biography_. His publications, so far as I can trace them, are as follows:

(1) _The Genealogy of the family of Gylle, or Gill, of Hertfordshire, Essex and Kent, illustrated by wills and other documents_ (London, 1842). This pamphlet is an enlarged reprint of a contribution to _Collectanea Topographica et Genealogica_, vol. viii.

(2) _A Tractate on Language_ (London, 1859): a second revised edition appeared in 1860.

(3) _History of the Parish of Wraysbury, Ankerwycke Priory, and Magna Charta Island; with the History of Horton, and the Town of Colnbrook, Bucks._ (London, 1862.)

(4) _Galatea: A pastoral romance. By Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Literally translated from the Spanish_ (London, 1867). A posthumous reprint was issued in 1892.

(5) _The Voyage to Parnassus: Numantia, a Tragedy; The Commerce of Algiers, by Cervantes. Translated from the Spanish...._ (London, 1870).

Concerning the writer I have gathered the following particulars: they are to some extent derived from statements scattered up and down his works. For the references to _Notes and Queries_ I am particularly indebted to Mr. W. R. Morfill, the distinguished Reader in Slavonic at the University of Oxford.

Our Gyll was born on August 1, 1803 (_History of Wraysbury_, p. 100), being the third son of William Gill (at one time an officer in the army), and the grandson of a City alderman. William Gill, the elder, was a partner in the firm of Wright, Gill, and Dalton, wholesale stationers in Abchurch Lane, London. He was elected alderman in 1781, served as Sheriff in 1781-1782, was appointed Treasurer of Christ's Hospital in 1784-1785, and in due course became Lord Mayor for 1788-1789. He died in the Treasurer's house at Christ's Hospital on March 26, 1798, being then seventy-four years of age: his brother-in-law and partner, Thomas Wright, died on April 9, 1798. An obituary note in _The Gentleman's Magazine_ (vol. lxviii., p. 264) states that the elder William Gill "was a respectable tradesman and died immensely rich." The younger William Gill died on February 16, 1806, at the age of thirty-one. I do not know to what school Gordon Willoughby James Gill was sent. He speaks of himself as "a member of the University of Oxford" (_A Tractate on Language_, First Edition, p. iii.). This is confirmed by the appended note in the Matricula Book, which am enabled to print through the kindness of my friend Mr. H. Butler Clarke:--

"From the Register of Matriculations of the University of Oxford. 1822 Jan. 15. Coll. Pemb. Gordon Willoughby Jacobus Gill, 18, Gulielmi, de par. S. Mariæ bonæ Arm. fil. 3^{ius}.

A true extract, made 30 Jan^{y.}, 1903 by T. Vere Bayne, Keeper of the Archives."

Unfortunately, this entry is not an autograph: all the other entries on the page which contains it are, as the Keeper of the Archives informs me, in the same handwriting. The _Oxford University Calendar_ for 1823 gives (p. 275) our author's names in this form and sequence: James Willoughby Gordon Gill. This form and order are repeated in the _Oxford University Calendar_ for the years 1824 and 1825. In the alphabetical index to the _Calendar_ for 1823-1824-1825 this Pembroke undergraduate is entered as: _Gill, James G. W._ As the editors of the semi-official _Calendar_ derive their information from the College authorities, we may take it that, from 1822 to 1825 inclusive, the future author passed as James Gill at Pembroke, and amongst those who knew him best. It cannot be supposed that the Master and Fellows of Pembroke made a wrong return for three consecutive years, nor that they wilfully reversed the order of Gill's Christian names with the express object of annoying him. Had they done either of these things, Gill was the very man to protest energetically: his conduct in later years snows that he was punctilious in these matters. However, it is right to bear in mind that the Matricula Book gives Gill's Christian names in the same order as they appear on his title-pages. I have failed to obtain any details of his career at Pembroke. Mr. Wood, the present Librarian at Pembroke, states that there is "no proper record" of the Commoners at that College in Gill's time. On this point I have only to say that the poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes was in residence at Pembroke with Gill, and that information concerning Beddoes's undergraduate days is apparently not lacking. Possibly more careful research might discover some trace of Gill at Oxford. He seems to have taken no degree, and to have left no memory or tradition at Pembroke. He himself tells us (_A Tractate on Language_, First Edition, p. iii) that when at Oxford "he formed an acquaintance with a gentleman of considerable erudition, but not of either University, who had made the English tongue his peculiar care." To this association we owe _A Tractate on Language_, and, perhaps, the peculiarities of style which Gill afterwards developed. But, in the latter respect, a serious responsibility may attach to Milton; for, in his _Tractate_, Gill refers to the poet and laments (p. 224) that, at the period of which he speaks, "the Allegro and Penseroso were confined to the closets of the judicious." The inference is that Gill modelled his diction on both these poems.

His name disappears from the _Oxford University Calendar_ in 1826. He visited Mexico in 1832 (_History of Wraysbury_, p. 49), and perhaps during this journey he picked up a queer smattering of Spanish. On August 29, 1839, he married "Anne Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edward Bowyer-Smijth, Bt.," and this seems to have given a new direction to what he calls his "studious tendencies."

The founder of his wife's family was plain William Smith, who died in 1626; this William Smith's son developed into Thomas Smyth, and died a baronet in 1668; Sir Thomas Smyth's great-great-grandson, the seventh baronet, was known as Sir William Smijth, and died in 1823. Gill's father-in-law,--Vicar of Camberwell and Chaplain to George IV.--was the ninth baronet. On June 10, 1839, he assumed the name of Bowyer by royal license, and was styled Sir Edward Bowyer-Smijth. In this the Vicar was practically following the lead of his younger brother, a captain in the 10th Hussars, who assumed the name of Windham by royal license at Toulouse on May 22, 1823, and thenceforth signed himself Joseph Smijth-Windham. The contagion infected Gill.

After his marriage to Miss Bowyer-Smijth, third daughter of the ninth baronet, Gill became a diligent student of genealogy, heraldry and county-history. It might be excessive to say that he was attacked by the _folie des grandeurs_; but he does appear to have felt that, since the Smiths had blossomed into Bowyer-Smijths and Smijth-Windhams, a man of his ability was bound to do something of the same kind for the ancient house of Gill. And something was done: a great deal, in fact. The first-fruits of Gill's enterprise are garnered in _The genealogy of the family of Gylle, or Gill, of Hertfordshire, Essex and Kent, illustrated by wills and other documents_ which he printed in 1842. At this first stage he acted with praiseworthy caution, signing his pamphlet with the initials G. G. If he was ever known by so vulgar a name as James--the name of the patron-saint of Spain--he had evidently got rid of it by 1842. At Pembroke in 1823 his initials were J. G. W. G., according to the _Oxford University Calendar_: nineteen years later they were G. G. This advancement passed unnoticed, and the delighted investigator continued his researches. These were so successful that, according to Gill's shy confession wrung from him long afterwards, "as the old annals, parish registers, tombs, wills. &c., wrote our name Gyll, we, by sign manual, returned to that orthography in 1844": (see _Notes and Queries_, March 24, 1866, vol. ix., p. 250). The English of this avowal is bad, but the meaning is clear. Henceforward Gill is transfigured into Gyll. These easy victories led him to enlarge his plan of campaign, and thus we find in the 1846 edition of _Burke's Landed Gentry_ the pedigree of the family of Gyll of Wyrardisbury, which contains the statement that on October 13, 1794, the head of the house (of the Gylls of Wyrardisbury), "William Gyll, Esquire, Captain 2nd Regiment Life Guards, and Equerry to H. R. H. the Duke of Sussex" married "Lady Harriet Flemyng, only child of the Right Hon. Hamilton Flemyng, last Earl of Wigtoun, and had issue" our author, and other children with whom we are not concerned here.

According to George Lipscomb's _History and Antiquities of the County of Buckingham_ (London, 1847, vol. iv., p. 605, _n._ 1.), it was on December 17, 1844, that "Her Majesty was pleased ... to permit the family of Gyll of Wyrardisbury, to resume the ancient orthography of their name." The enthusiastic Gyll (as we must now call him) interpreted the privilege in a generous fashion. It galled the patrician to think that his grandfather had been a lowly alderman, and to know that this lamentable fact was on record at Wraysbury. There were epitaphs in Wraysbury Church describing his grandfather as "Alderman of the City of London"; describing his father as "only son of Alderman Gill"; describing his aunt, Mrs. Paxton, as "daughter of William Gill, Esq., Alderman of the City of London." Our Gyll had all these odious references to the aldermanship removed; in their stead he introduced more high-sounding phrases; he interpolated the statement that his grandfather was "of the family of Gyll of Wyddial, Herts"; and on all three monuments he took it upon himself to change Gill into Gyll. The changes were made clumsily and unintelligently, but one cannot have everything. Gordon Gyll was indefatigable in his pious work, and, within three years, he somehow induced Lipscomb (_op. cit._, vol. iv., p. 604) to insert a pedigree connecting the family of "Gyll of Buckland and Wyddial Hall, co. Herts, Yeoveny Hall, co. Middlesex, and Wyrardisbury Hall, co. Bucks," with certain Gylls established in Cambridgeshire during the reign of Edward I. It is impossible not to admire the calm courage with which the still, strong man swept facts, tombstones, epitaphs, and obstacle's of all kinds from the path of his nobility.

His proceedings passed unnoticed during fourteen happy years. At last attention was drawn to them in _Notes and Queries_ (May 11, 1861, p. 365) by a correspondent who signed himself "A Stationer." "A Stationer" remarked sarcastically on the erasure of all references to the aldermanship from the monuments in Wraysbury Church, noted that the dead Gills had been glorified into Gylls, deplored Gordon Gyll's ingratitude towards the ancestors to whom he owed everything, censured Gyll's conduct as "silly," and protested against such tampering as improper. The editor of _Notes and Queries_ supported "A Stationer's" view on the ground that monuments had hitherto been accepted as testimony in suits at law, and that their evidential value would be completely destroyed if Gyll's example were generally followed. Gyll put on his finest county manner, and replied in an incoherent letter (_Notes and Queries_, May 26, 1861, p. 414) which breathes the haughty spirit of a great territorial chieftain. He denounced the insolence of "A Stationer" in daring to criticize "a county family," branded the intruder as a "tradesman," a "miserable citizen critic," and pitied the poor soul's "confined education." But he failed to explain his conduct satisfactorily, and laid himself open to the taunts of Dr. J. Alexander (_Notes and Queries_, June 8, 1861, p. 452), who declared that Gyll had "proved himself unable to write English, and ignorant of some of the simplest rules of composition." Dr. Alexander added that,--if a licence obtained in 1844 could justify changing the spelling of the name of a man who died in 1798,--by parity of reasoning, "had the worthy alderman accepted the proferred baronetcy, all his ancestors would, _ipso facto_, become baronets. I believe China is the only country where this practice obtains." In the same number of _Notes and Queries_, "A Stationer" returned to the subject, and posed a number of very awkward questions. "Are the Gylls really a county family? And when did they become so? Has any member of the house ever filled the office of Knight of the shire, or even that of sheriff for the county of Buckingham?" And, after reproaching Gyll for his repudiation of his hard-working grandfather, "A Stationer" ended by assuring the proud squire that "the Stationers of London have a more grateful recollection of their quondam brothers and benefactors--for benefactors they were to a very unequal extent. From Alderman Wright, the Stationers received 2000_l._ 4 per cents.: from Alderman Gill (who left a fortune of £300,000) 30_s._ a year to be added to Cator's dinner. However, their portraits are still to be seen in the counting-house of the Company, placed in one frame, side by side. "_Par nobile fratrum!_" Gyll dashed off a reply which the editor of _Notes and Queries_ (June 29, 1861, p. 520) declined to insert: "as we desire to avoid as much as possible any intermixture of personal matters into this important question." At this the blood of all the Gylls boiled in the veins of Gordon Willoughby James. He was not to be put off by a timorous journalist, and he secured the insertion in _Notes and Queries_ (July 27, 1861, p. 74) of an illiterate letter which, says the editor, "we have printed ... exactly as it stands in the original." The letter seems to have been written under the influence of deep emotion, for the aristocratic Gyll twice speaks of his grandfather as a "party." He demanded an ample apology, and ended with the announcement that "if I do not hear from you I shall send the family lawyer to meet the charge." Gyll did not obtain the apology, did not attempt to answer "A Stationer's" string of questions, did not accept the editor's offer to print the suppressed letter, did not "send the family lawyer to meet the charge." In fact he did nothing that he threatened to do, and nothing that he was asked to do. If he consulted his solicitor, the latter probably joined with the editor and told him not to make a fool of himself.

But Gyll had no idea of abandoning his pretensions, and he renewed them with abundant details in his _History of Wraysbury_, a quarto which contains more than its title implies. He is not content to note (p. 153) that "occasionally those dreary landmarks in the vast desert of human misery, called Coroner's inquests, arise in Wraysbury." He also proves, to his own satisfaction, that "the family of Ghyll, Gyll, Gylle, Gille, Gill, for it is recorded in all these ways, is derived from that one which resided in the North, temp. Edward the Confessor, 1041, at Gille's Land in Cumberland" (p. 99), and that "in 1278 Walter le Gille served as a juryman at Tonbridge" (p. 98). The arms of the Gylls are duly given: "Sable, two chevrons argent, each charged with three mullets of the field, on a dexter Canton, or; a lion passant at guard, gules. Also Lozenges or and vert; a lion rampant at guard, gules." Heralds whom I have consulted have jeered at the Gyll escutcheon, but I cannot bring myself to give their ribald remarks in print. Apparently, the main purpose of the _History of Wraysbury_ is to shew that the Gylls (with a _y_) are very Superior Persons, and that the Gills (with an _i_) are People of No Importance. Gyll admits that the latter produced a worthy man in the person of John Gill, "a Baptist divine"; and the historian, when writing of his poor relations (p. 125), emphasizes the fact that John Gill was not an Anabaptist. Anabaptists were evidently an inferior set.

It will be seen that Gyll traced back his pedigree to a period earlier than the Norman Conquest: six centuries before his wife's ancestors (then known as Smith) were first heard of. It was a great achievement and henceforth no Gyll need fear to look a Bowring-Smijth in the face. And Gyll's ambition grew. He could not prove that he was the child of a baronet, and, in so much, he was in a position of social inferiority to his wife. But he did the next best thing by declaring that, if he was not the son of a baronet, he easily might have been. In his _History of Wraysbury_, he states (p. 97) that his grandfather was Lord Mayor of London when George III. went to St Paul's to give thanks for his recovery from his first attack of insanity, that the usual patent "was prepared and announced in all the public papers, 18th and 19th April, 1789, to create him a Baronet, which is usual when the King honours the city on any great occasion, but the profered advancement was not accepted for family reasons. Nor was the claim revived until his son "William Gyll, Captain 2nd Life Guards, who had in 1803 at his own expense raised two troops of cavalry at the threat of invasion, solicited the favour which his father had injudiciously declined, when he too unfortunately died prematurely, and the expected honour has not since been conferred." This is a repetition of a favourite phrase: for Lipscomb (_op. cit._, vol. iv., p. 605, _n._ 3) states that the younger William Gyll "unfortunately died suddenly, and the expected honour has not since been conferred." One can guess the source of Lipscomb's information.

I regret to say that Gyll throws all the blame for this catastrophe on his grandmother, as may be seen by an intemperate foot-note which follows the passage just quoted from the _History of Wraysbury_: "His (the Lord Mayor's) wife Mary induced him to forego the honour, because there was a son by his first wife, who only survived a few years and died unmarried. Women may be very affectionate but not discreet. They have a fibre more in their hearts, and a cell less in their brains than men." This is most improper, no doubt. Still, great allowance should be made for the exasperation of a man who longed to be a baronet's son, who might have been one, and who was not.

Gyll had certainly played his part gallantly. Considering the material that he had to use, he worked wonders. He had (perhaps) transformed himself from James to Gordon; he had (unquestionably) evolved from Gill to Gyll. He had wiped out the horrid memory of the aldermanship, and had buried the old stationer's shop miles beneath the ground-floor of limbo. And there is testimony to his social triumphs in the list of subscribers that precedes his _History of Wraysbury_, which is dedicated "by permission" to the late Prince Consort. Among the subscribers were two dukes, two earls, five barons, ten baronets: and these great personages were followed by Mr. Disraeli, Mr. Milner Gibson, the Dean of Windsor, the Provost of Eton, and other commoners of distinction.

It was a glorious victory which Gyll enjoyed in peace for four years. Then his hour of reckoning came. A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, signing himself "Anglo-Scotus," pointed out (February 24, 1866, p. 158) that the statement concerning the Gylls in _Burke's Landed Gentry_ was erroneous; that no officer named Gyll ever held a commission in either regiment of the Life Guards; that Hamilton Flemyng was not the last (or any other) Earl of Wigtoun; and that consequently no such person as Lady Harriet Flemyng ever existed. Gyll pondered for a month and then, at last, nerved himself to write to _Notes and Queries_ (March 24, 1866, p. 250) asserting that Hamilton Flemyng was "_per legem terrae_, 9th and last Earl of Wigton." His letter was thought to be too rambling for insertion: the editor confined himself to printing this crucial passage, and referred Gyll to the report of the Committee for Privileges which set forth that "the claimant (Hamilton Flemyng) hath no right to the titles, honours, and dignities claimed by his petition." This report was quoted in the same number of _Notes and Queries_ (pp. 246-247) by an Edinburgh correspondent signing himself G., and G. went on to say that, though no Gyll ever held a commission in the Life Guards, a certain William Gill figures in the Edinburgh Almanacs for 1794-5-6 as a Lieutenant in the 2nd Life Guards. I have since verified this statement, and I find that William Gill was gazetted to the 2nd Life Guards on September 26, 1793. In spite of the interest that he took in his family history, Gyll had no accurate knowledge of his father's doings. William Gill was transferred to the Late 2nd Troop of Horse Grenadier Guards (a reduced corps receiving full pay) on March 23, 1796, and he retired on March 19, 1799 (see _The London Gazette_, Nos. 13,878 and 15,116). But Gyll was ever a muddler and a bungler. He informed Lipscomb that his father had "died suddenly" (_op. cit._, vol. iv., p. 605); while, in the _History of Wraysbury_ (p. 121), he copies an epitaph recording William Gill's death "after a long and painful illness."

It was thus established that the family name was Gill; that the younger William Gill did not marry the daughter of the last Earl of Wigton (or Wigtoun); that he was never a Captain in the 2nd Life Guards; and that in 1803, when he was alleged to have raised two troops of cavalry, he had already resigned his commission four years. Human nature being what it is, this exposure may have brought a smile to the lips of the Bowyer-Smijths who had listened to Gyll's stories of a cock and of a bull for a quarter of a century. Gyll collapsed at once when detected, and he published no more results of his genealogical researches. It is a pity, for who knows to what length of absurdity he might not have gone? Who knows, indeed, whether his little tale of the Lord Mayor and the baronetcy is not of a piece with the rest? I have searched the contemporary newspapers, and the nearest approach that I can find to a confirmation of Gyll's assertion is in _The Diary; or Woodfall's Register_ (Friday, April 24, 1789): "That the Lord Mayor will be a Baronet is now certain; and that Deputies Seekey and Birch will be knighted is extremely probable." I do not know what happened to Seekey and Birch. The Gylls are enough for a lifetime. Years afterwards a correspondent to _Notes and Queries_ (December 26, 1876, p. 512) derisively observed that "the Gyll family, however, quarter the Flemyng arms, and also the Flemyng crest." But the badger was not to be drawn a third time: Gyll endured the affront in the meekest silence.

The versatile man had relieved his severe antiquarian studies by excursions into light literature. _A Tractate on Language_ was published because, as the author avows (p. iii), "he thought (perhaps immaturely) that some occult treasures and recondite truths in philology were eliminated, and were worthy public consideration." When Gyll wrote these words (1859) he was in his fifty-seventh year, and was as mature as he was ever likely to be. The work, which contains the alarming statement (p. 171) that "Noah taught his descendants his matricular tongue," seems to have been rudely handled by critics. In the second edition of his _Tractate_ Gyll replies with the ladylike remark that "as regards his opinions, it was not consistent with equity or delicacy that they should have been encountered with _savage phrenzy_;" and, with a proper contempt for reviewers, he adds that "while such reviews indulge thus indiscriminately, pourtraying sheer obliquity of mind and judgment in lieu of that _manly acumen_ to which they pretend, the critics must perceive how much below the dignity of the criticised it is to evince uneasiness or resentment--both as easily 'shaken off as dewdrops from the lion's mane.'" It is unlikely that Gyll is widely read nowadays, and this is my excuse for doing what I can to save two distinguished aphorisms from the wreck of his _Tractate_. There is nothing like them (it is safe to say) in Pascal or La Rochefoucauld.

(_a_) "As in religion what is bones to philosophy is milk to faith" (pp. iii-iv).

(_b_) "A literary man, however, is like a silkworm employed and wrapped up in his own work" (p. 163).

After his exposure in _Notes and Queries_ Gyll dropped genealogy, heraldry, and topography as though they were so many living coals. But, though he dreaded the fire, he was still bent on making the world ring with the name of Gyll. Spanish literature, which was at that time cultivated in these islands by such men as Chorley, FitzGerald, Archbishop Trench, Denis Florence Mac-Carthy and Ormsby, seemed to him a promising field in which he should find no dangerous rivals. In the _History of Wraysbury_ (p. 146) he included his own name among the "names of literary and distinguished characters of Wraysbury," and under the date 1860, he mentions his "Translation from the Spanish of Don Guzmán de Alfarache." I presume this was a version of Mateo Alemán's picaresque novel, but I can find no trace of it. At the age of sixty-four the extraordinary Gyll furbished up the few words of Spanish which he had learned in Mexico thirty-five years earlier, and courageously started as a translator of Cervantes. His versions are the worst ever published in any tongue. But criticism was impotent against his self-complacency. A true literary man, he lived--to use his own happy phrase--"like a silkworm employed and wrapped up in his own work." On the whole his was a prosperous career. Carpers might do their worst, but the solid facts remain. Gyll had practically blotted out the stain of the stationer's shop and the aldermanship; he had obtained permission to write his name with a _y_: he had elbowed his way into county-histories, into Burke's _Landed Gentry_ and into Burke's _General Armory_; he had published such works as, in all probability, the world will never see again. He appreciated these performances to the full, and he revelled in gazing on the south window in Wraysbury Church, of which he writes (_History of Wraysbury_, p. 123): "At the summit are two small openings of painted glass, and in the centre is a quatrefoil in which the letters G. W. J. G. are convoluted.... The play of colours on the monuments when the sun is brilliant, affords a pleasing variegation." What more could the mind of man desire? Gordon Willoughby James Gyll died on April 6, 1878.

[111] See p. viii. of Gyll's version: "Dedicated by Cervantes, to his Excellency Don Joseph Moniño, Count of Florida Blanca, Knight of the Grand Cross of the Royal Order of K. Charles III." The fact is, of course, that Gyll translated from _Los seis libros de Galatea_, reprinted in 1784 by Antonio de Sancha with a dedication to Floridablanca. The words--"Dedicated by Cervantes"--are interpolated by Gyll. Floridablanca died in 1808, nearly two hundred years after Cervantes.

[112] Evidently a misprint for Silena.

[113] In justice to Gyll, the polemist, I reprint his two letters contributed to _Notes and Queries_ (May 25, 1861, and July 27, 1861):--

(_a_) "A STATIONER writes his remarks on the subject of some alterations on lapidary inscriptions in Wraysbury Church: and pray, Sir, by what right does this tradesman ask any family why they choose to change a monumental reading, provided nothing is inserted which militates against truth?

What has the world to do with family arrangements? And whether is the article to be taken for a _charge_ or a _lament_? I only wish this busy citizen to employ his time more profitably--while I wonder that any periodical should condescend to introduce the subject, without notice being given to members of the family, and an inquiry made. If they had reasons good for it, what on earth does the public care about it? Certain words on certain monuments were not approved by a county family, and they were omitted: and lo! a citizen rises to impeach the _proprietary_ of it. The case stands thus, Monument No. 1:

This was an unusually large slab, on which the simple record of the deaths of Wm. Gyll, Esq., and his wife, were only inscribed. The family thought the space might be occupied by the addition of other family names, &c.--and it was done. And now the slab is full.

No. 2. Wm. Gyll, Esq., was styled here Equerry to H.R.H. Duke of Sussex; but that he was also Captain in the 2nd Life Guards was omitted. It was deemed expedient to make room for its insertion, and it was done.

No. 3. On Mrs. Paxton's monument, a daughter of Wm. Gyll, Esq., the latter gentleman is styled _of this parish_; and as he had considerable property here, it was his proper designation. Room was made to effect this, and it was done.

There are thirteen monuments to the family of Gyll, or relations, in the chancel of Wraysbury Church; and where the patronymic was spelt with an _i_ as formerly, instead of _y_ as latterly, a change was made that these names might correspond with the same orthography on other monuments (see Chauncey & Clutterbuck, _Herts_), and with antique deeds (see _Collectanea Topographica_, vol. viii.).

The family for many years had returned to the _original_ mode of spelling their patronymic, to distinguish them from other families similarly called; and for this privilege a permission was obtained by _sign manual_ in 1844. And if a correspondent change was made on the monuments, what has anyone in the world to do with it but the family?

In one case a mistaken date was inscribed, 17th for 26th March. This is made a _charge and a crime_ by this miserable citizen critic, as if these mistakes were made purposely.

In two cases Dr. Lipscomb's monumental inscriptions give _widow_ for wife, and _Sept._ for April. Had the STATIONER, who is so wonderfully correct, and turns all things to wrongs, gone or sent to Wraysbury, he would have found _his_ improvements already on the monuments.

But his candid soul converts all this to _vanity_: and, no doubt, vanity finds endless occupation for ingenuity and invention. Suggests that a family ought to be proud of civic honours. Many thanks to the _suggestive_ STATIONER; but if this family is not, what cares the world about it? It may have gained nothing by the position; but if he will be _obtrusive_, let him tell the next editor who is in want of matter another _secret_--for he uses _this term_ in his disquisition--that Mr. Gyll, in 1789, refused to be created a Baronet, and that the patent was made out and was ready for execution. See the newspapers _passim_, 18th and 23rd April, 1789.

It may be the family desires no remembrance of the honours conferred, or the honours proffered; and if so, what daring presumption gives a STATIONER a plea to impugn any act done by A. or B., and parade it before the public in an accommodating journal? His confined education may preclude his knowing that a Lord Stanhope doffed his title and removed his arms from all his carriages; and that Horace Walpole remarked, that calling him "My Lord," was calling him _names_ in his old age. Many have not assumed honours to which they were entitled.

As the STATIONER, or the poor malice of the writer under this name, has made a _charge_, I trust, Sir, in your _equity_, that you will insert this explanation in your next number; and I also trust to read in your most interesting and useful publication, for the future, more that _concerns_ the curious world than that a family substituted on a monument a _y_ for an _i_, and withheld altogether the naming of an honour which might have appeared there.

GORDON GYLL.

7, Lower Seymour Street, Portman Square."

(_b_) "As you have not published the letter I sent to your office in answer to that of A STATIONER, and also to an LL.D., who, instead of quietly confining himself to an opinion on a point of law, rushed into _personalities_ quite unjustified by circumstances, for no letter was addressed to him unless he be the STATIONER in disguise, who, in his arrogance dared to say that I was ignorant of the first principles of composition--I wish to know whether the LL.D. or STATIONER mean to assert that by our improving certain monuments in Wraysbury Church (which we, as a family acting in unison, were entitled to do without the interference of anyone) we have falsified them.

If that be intended, we consider the allegation _false and injurious_, and unless we have an unequivocal denial, we shall refer the case to our legal adviser. The entire object of the STATIONER was to insult our family, and to impute motives, which was enough to incite to resentment.

If he had politely said that we had caused one letter to be substituted for another, which did not change the sound of the name, and had put in a Christian name where the title of a civic honour was inscribed, whereby the party was more _clearly_ identified--for Mr. Alderman A. may be anybody--it had been well and harmless, and no such letter, which he terms acrimonious, had been written.

You gave, in a note to my letter, an opinion that the question was _not touched_. Now, Sir, I wish to ask you or the LL.D. if any LAW is violated, and if a family has a right to inscribe on a monument that A. or B. were Deputy-Lieut., Magistrates, M.P., or High Sheriffs? and if so, if a party is termed Alderman where his proper description would be Lord Mayor, the family may not legally and judiciously alter it?

We stand impeached with _breaking a law_, and by implication with, _falsifying_ a lapidary inscription. We wish to know if _these imputations_ are meant either by LL.D. or the STATIONER, for if they are, let the case be tried before proper tribunal, or else let us have a denial. If I do not hear from you I shall send the family lawyer to meet the charge.

GORDON GYLL.

7, Lower Seymour Street, Portman Square."

The above are reproduced exactly as printed in _Notes and Queries_. As already observed (p. lii. _n._), Gyll did not carry out his threats.

FIRST PART OF THE GALATEA

DIVIDED INTO SIX BOOKS

WRITTEN BY MIGUEL DE CERVANTES

DEDICATION TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS LORD, ASCANIO COLONNA,[114] ABBOT OF SANTA SOFIA.

Your Lordship's worth has prevailed with me so much as to take away from me the fear I might rightly feel in venturing to offer you these first-fruits of my poor genius. Moreover, considering that your August Lordship came to Spain not only to illumine her best Universities, but also to be the pole-star by which those who profess any real science (especially those who practise that of poetry) may direct their course, I have not wished to lose the opportunity of following this guidance, since I know that in it and by it all find a safe haven and a favourable reception. May your Lordship be gracious to my desire, which I send in advance to give some kind of being to this my small service; and if I do not deserve it for this, I may at least deserve it for having followed for several years the conquering banners of that Sun of warfare whom but yesterday Heaven took from before our eyes, but not from the remembrance of those who strive to keep the remembrance of things worthy of it, I mean your Lordship's most excellent father. Adding to this the feeling of reverence produced in my mind by the things that I, as in prophecy, have often heard Cardinal de Acquaviva tell of your Lordship when I was his chamberlain at Rome; which now are seen fulfilled, not only by me, but by all the world that delights in your Lordship's virtue, Christian piety, munificence, and goodness, whereby you give proof every day of the noble and illustrious race from which you descend; which vies in antiquity with the early times and leaders of Rome's greatness, and in virtues and heroic works with equal virtue and more exalted deeds, as is proved to us by a thousand true histories, full of the renowned exploits of the trunk and branches of the royal house of Colonna, beneath whose power and position I now place myself to shield myself against the murmurers who forgive nothing; though, if your Lordship forgive this my boldness, I shall have naught to fear, nor more to desire, save that our Lord may keep your Lordship's most illustrious person with the increase of dignity and position that we your servants all desire.

Most Illustrious Lord, Your humblest servant kisses your Lordship's hands, MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.

FOOTNOTES:

[114] (Son of Marc Antonio Colonna, Duke of Paliano, whose share in the famous battle is set forth in P. Alberto Guglielmotti's _Marcantonio Colonna alla bataglia di Lepanto_ (Firenze, 1862). Marc Antonio Colonna, then Viceroy of Sicily, was summoned to Spain by Philip II. in 1584. He died suddenly at Medinaceli on August 1, 1584. The dedication is a compliment paid to the son of the author's old commander. J. F.-K.)

PROLOGUE.

CURIOUS READERS,

The occupation of writing eclogues, at a time when poetry is generally regarded with such little favour, will not, I fancy, be counted as so praiseworthy a pursuit, but that it may be necessary especially to justify it to those who, following the varying tastes of their natural inclination, esteem every taste differing from it as time and labour lost. But since it concerns no man to justify himself to intellects that shut themselves up within bounds so narrow, I desire only to reply to those who, being free from passion, are moved, with greater reason, not to admit any varieties of popular poetry, believing that those who deal with it in this age are moved to publish their writings on slight consideration, carried away by the force which passion for their own compositions is wont to have on the authors. So far as this is concerned, I can urge for my part the inclination I have always had for poetry, and my years, which, having scarcely passed the bounds of youth, seem to permit pursuits of the kind. Besides, it cannot be denied that studies in this art (in former times so highly esteemed and rightly) carry with them no inconsiderable advantages: such as enriching the poet (as regards his native tongue); and acquiring a mastery over the tricks of eloquence comprised in it, for enterprises that are loftier and of greater import; and opening a way so that the narrow souls that wish the copiousness of the Castilian tongue to be checked by the conciseness of the ancient speech, may, in imitation of him, understand that it offers a field open, easy, and spacious, which they can freely traverse with ease and sweetness, with gravity and eloquence, discovering the variety of acute, subtle, weighty, and elevated thoughts, which, such is the fertility of Spanish men of genius, Heaven's favourable influence has produced with such profit in different parts, and every hour is producing in this happy age of ours, whereof I can be a sure witness, for I know some men who, with justice and without the impediment I suffer, could safely cover so dangerous a course. But so common and so diverse are men's difficulties, and so various their aims and actions, that some, in desire of glory, venture, others, in fear of disgrace, do not dare, to publish that which, once disclosed, must needs endure the uncertain, and well-nigh always mistaken, judgment of the people. I have given proof of boldness in publishing this book, not because I have any reason to be confident, but because I could not determine which of these two difficulties was the greater: whether that of the man who, wishing to communicate too soon the talent he has received from Heaven, lightly ventures to offer the fruits of his genius to his country and friends, or that of him who, from pure scrupulousness, sloth, or dilatoriness, never quite contented with what he does and imagines, counting as perfect only that which he does not attain, never makes up his mind to disclose and communicate his writings. Hence, just as the daring and confidence of the one might be condemned, by reason of the excessive license which accompanies security; so, too, the mistrust and tardiness of the other is vicious, since late or never does he by the fruits of his intellect and study benefit those who expect and desire such aids and examples, to make progress in their pursuits. Shunning these two difficulties, I have not published this book before now, nor yet did I desire to keep it back longer for myself alone, seeing that my intellect composed it for more than for my pleasure alone. I know well that what is usually condemned is that no one excels in point of the style which ought to be maintained in it, for the prince of Latin poetry was blamed for having reached a higher level in some of his eclogues more than in others; and so I shall not have much fear that any one may condemn me for having mingled philosophical discourses with some loving discourses of shepherds, who rarely rise beyond treating of things of the field, and that with their wonted simplicity. But when it is observed (as is done several times in the course of the work) that many of the disguised shepherds in it were shepherds only in dress, this objection falls to the ground. The remaining objections that might be raised as regards the invention and ordering may be palliated by the fixed intention of him who reads, if he will do so with discretion, and by the wish of the author, which was to please, doing in this what he could and actually did, achieve; for even though the work in this part do not correspond to his desire, he offers others, yet to come, of better taste and greater art.

BY LUIS GÁLVEZ DE MONTALVO. TO THE AUTHOR.

SONNET.

What time thy neck and shoulders thou didst place, Submissive, 'neath the Saracenic yoke, And didst uphold, with constancy unbroke Amidst thy bonds, thy faith in God's own grace, Heaven rejoiced, but earth was for a space, Without thee, well-nigh widowed: desolate, Filled with lament and sadness for thy state, Was left the Muses' royal dwelling-place. But since that, from amidst the heathen host, Which kept thee close, thy manly soul and tongue Thou didst unto thy native land restore, Heaven itself of thy bright worth makes boast, The world greets thy return with happy song, And the lost Muses Spain receives once more.

BY DON LUIS DE VARGAS MANRIQUE. SONNET.

In thee the sovran gods their mighty power, Mighty Cervantes, to the world declared. Nature, the first of all, for thee prepared Of her immortal gifts a lavish store: Jove did his lightning on his servant pour, The living word that moves the rocky wall: That thou in purity of style mightst all With ease excel, Diana gave her dower: Mercury taught thee histories to weave: The strength Mars gave thee that doth nerve thine arm: Cupid and Venus all their loves bestowed: 'Twas from Apollo that thou didst receive Concerted song: from the Nine Sisters charm And wisdom: shepherds from the woodland god.

BY LÓPEZ MALDONADO. SONNET.

Out from the sea they issue and return Unto its bosom when their course is o'er, As to the All-Mother they return once more, The children who have left her long forlorn. She is not lesser made whene'er they go, Nor prouder when their presence they restore; For she remaineth whole from shore to shore, And with her waters aye her pools o'erflow. Thou art the sea, oh Galatea fair! The rivers are thy praises, the reward Whereby thou winnest immortality. The more thou givest to us, thou canst spare The more; though all before thy feet have poured Their tribute, yet thou canst not greater be.

GALATEA.

BOOK I.

What time unto my sad and mournful cry, Unto the ill-tuned music of my lyre, The hill and mead, the plain and stream reply In bitter echo of my vain desire, Then take thou, wind, that heedless hastenest by, The plaints which from my breast, chilled with love's fire, Issue in my despite, asking in vain Succour from stream and hill, from mead and plain.

The stream is swollen by the tears which flow Forth from my wearied eyes: the flowery mead Blooms with the brambles and the thorns that grow Into my soul: the lofty hill doth heed Nowise my sorrows; and the plain below Of hearing is awearied: in my need No solace, e'er so small, to assuage my ill I find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.

I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame, Lit by the wingèd boy, the cunning net, Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame, The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whet In frenzied wrath, would wound the peerless dame As me they wound, who am her slave; and yet No noose nor fire hath power against a heart That is of marble made, nor net nor dart.

But lo, 'tis I who burn within the blaze, I waste away: before the net unseen I tremble not: my neck I humbly place Within the noose; and of his arrow keen I have no fear: thus to this last disgrace Have I been brought--so great my fall has been That for my glory and my heart's desire The dart and net I count, the noose and fire.

Thus on the banks of the Tagus sang Elicio, a shepherd on whom nature had lavished as many gifts as fortune and love had withheld; though the course of time, that consumes and renews man's handiwork, had brought him to such a pass, that he counted for happiness the endless misfortunes in which he had found himself, and in which his desire had placed him, for the incomparable beauty of the peerless Galatea, a shepherdess born on those same banks. Although brought up in pastoral and rustic exercises, yet was she of so lofty and excellent an understanding, that gentle ladies, nurtured in royal palaces, and accustomed to the refined manners of the Court, counted themselves happy to approach her in discretion as in beauty, by reason of the many noble gifts with which Heaven had adorned Galatea. She was loved and desired with earnest passion by many shepherds and herdsmen, who tended their herds by the banks of the Tagus: amongst whom the gay Elicio made bold to love her, with a love as pure and honest, as the virtue and modesty of Galatea allowed. It must not be thought of Galatea that she despised Elicio, still less that she loved him: for, at times, almost persuaded, as it were, and overcome by the many services of Elicio, she with some modest favour would raise him to heaven; and, at other times, without taking account of this, she would disdain him in such wise, that the love-sick shepherd scarce knew his lot. The excellencies and virtues of Elicio were not to be despised, nor were the beauty, grace, and goodness of Galatea not to be loved. On the one hand, Galatea did not wholly reject Elicio; on the other, Elicio could not, nor ought he to, nor did he wish to, forget Galatea. It seemed to Galatea, that since Elicio loved her with such regard to her honour, it would be too great an ingratitude not to reward his modest thoughts with some modest favour. Elicio fancied that since Galatea did not disdain his services, his desires would have a happy issue; and, whenever these fancies revived his hope, he found himself so happy and emboldened, that a thousand times he wished to discover to Galatea what he kept concealed with so much difficulty. But Galatea's discretion well knew from the movements of his face what Elicio had in his mind; and she gave such an expression to hers that the words of the love-sick shepherd froze in his mouth, and he rested content with the mere pleasure of that first step: for it seemed to him that he was wronging Galatea's modesty in treating of things that might in some way have the semblance of not being so modest, that modesty itself might take their form. With these up and downs the shepherd passed his life so miserably that, at times, he would have counted as gain the evil of losing her, if only he might not feel the pain which it caused him not to win her. And so one day, having set himself to consider his varied thoughts, in the midst of a delightful meadow, invited by the solitude and by the murmur of a delightful streamlet that ran through the plain, he took from his wallet a polished rebeck (singing to the sound of which he was wont to communicate his plaints to Heaven), and with a voice of exceeding beauty sang the following verses:

Amorous fancy, gently ride On the breeze if thou wouldst show That I only am thy guide, Lest disdain should bring thee low, Or contentment fill with pride. Do thou choose a mean, if fate Grants thee choice amidst thy plight, Neither seek to flee delight Nor yet strive to bar the gate 'Gainst the woe of Love's dark night.

If it be thy wish that I Of my life the course should run, Take it not in wrath: on high Raise it not, where hope is none, Whence it can but fall to die. If presumption lead astray, And so lofty be thine aim, This at last thy course will stay:-- Either thou wilt come to shame, Or my heart thy debts will pay.

Born therein, thy sinning lay In thy birth; the guilt was thine, Yet for thee the heart must pay. If to keep thee I design, 'Tis in vain, thou fleest away. If thou stayest not thy flight, Wherewith thou dost mount the skies (Should but fate thy fortunes blight) Thou wilt plunge in deep abyss Thy repose and my delight.

Who to fate, thou mayst declare, Yields himself, does well: his spirit, Spurring on to do and dare, Not as folly but as merit Will be counted everywhere. To aspire so loftily, Yearning thus to reach the goal, Peerless glory 'tis to thee,-- All the more when heart and soul Do with the design agree.

Thee to undeceive I seek, For I understand the meaning: 'Tis the humble and the meek, Rather than the overweening, Who of Love's delights can speak. Greater beauty cannot be Than the beauty thou desirest; Thy excuse I fail to see, How it comes that thou aspirest Where is no equality.

Fancy, if it hath desire Something raised on high to view, Looks and straightway doth retire, So that none may deem it true That the gaze doth thus aspire. How much more doth Love arise If with confidence united Whence it draws its destinies. But if once its hope be blighted, Fading like a cloud it dies.

Thou who lookest from afar On the goal for which thou sighest, Hopeless, yet unto thy star True,--if on the way thou diest, Diest knowing not thy care. Naught there is that thou canst gain, For, amidst this amorous strife, Where the cause none may attain, Dying is but honoured life, And its chiefest glory pain.

The enamoured Elicio would not so soon have ended his agreeable song, had there not sounded on his right hand the voice of Erastro, who with his herd of goats was coming towards the place where he was. Erastro was a rustic herdsman; yet his rustic lot, out in the woods, did not so far prevail with him as to forbid that Gentle Love should take entire possession of his manly breast, making him love more than his life the beauteous Galatea, to whom he did declare his plaints whenever occasion presented itself to him. And though rustic, he was, like a true lover, so discreet in things of love, that whenever he discoursed thereon, it seemed that Love himself revealed them to him, and by his tongue uttered them; yet withal (although they were heard by Galatea), they were held of such account as things of jest are held. To Elicio the rivalry of Erastro did not give pain, for he understood from the mind of Galatea that it inclined her to loftier things--rather did he have pity and envy for Erastro: pity in seeing that he did indeed love, and that in a quarter where it was impossible to gather the fruit of his desires; envy in that it seemed to him that perhaps his understanding was not such as to give room for his soul to feel the flouts or favours of Galatea in such a way that either the latter should overwhelm him, or the former drive him mad. Erastro came accompanied by his mastiffs, the faithful guardians of the simple sheep, which under their protection were safe from the carnivorous teeth of the hungry wolves; he made sport with them, and called them by their names, giving to each the title that its disposition and spirit deserved. One he would call Lion, another Hawk, one Sturdy and another Spot; and they, as if they were endowed with understanding, came up to him and, by the movement of their heads, expressed the pleasure which they felt at _his_ pleasure. In such wise came Erastro to where he was amiably received by Elicio, and even asked, allowing that he had not determined to spend the warm season of the sultry noon-tide in any other place, since that place in which they were was so fitted for it, whether it would be irksome to him to spend it in his company.

'With no one,' replied Erastro, 'could I pass it better than with you, Elicio, unless indeed it were with her who is as stubborn to my entreaties as she has proved herself a very oak to your unending plaints.'

Straightway the twain sat them down on the close-cropped grass, allowing the herd to wander at will, blunting, with teeth that chew the cud, the tender little shoots of the grassy plain. And as Erastro by many plain tokens knew perfectly well that Elicio loved Galatea, and that the merit of Elicio was of greater carat than his own, in token that he recognised this truth, in the midst of his converse, among other discourses addressed to him the following:

'I know not, gay and enamoured Elicio, if the love I have for Galatea has been the cause of giving you pain, and if it has, you must pardon me, for I never thought to offend you, nor of Galatea did I seek aught save to serve her. May evil madness or cruel rot consume and destroy my frisky kids and my tender lambkins! when they leave the teats of their dear mothers, may they not find in the green meadow aught to sustain them save bitter colocynth and poisonous oleander, if I have not striven a thousand times to put her from my memory, and if I have not gone as many times more to the leeches and priests of the place, that they might give me a cure for the anguish I suffer on her account! Some of them bid me take all kinds of love-potions, others tell me to commend myself to God, who cures everything, or that it is all madness. Suffer me, good Elicio, to love her, for you can be sure that if you, with your talents and admirable graces and discourses, do not soften her, I shall scarce be able, with my simple ways, to move her to pity. This favour I beg of you, by what I am indebted to your deserving: for, even if you do not grant it me, it would be as impossible to cease loving her, as to cause these waters to cease from giving moisture, or the sun with his combed tresses from giving us light.'

Elicio could not refrain from laughing at Erastro's discourse, and at the courtesy with which he begged of him permission to love Galatea; and thus he replied to him: 'It does not pain me indeed, Erastro, that you love Galatea; it pains me much to know from her disposition, that your truthful discourses and sincere words will be of little avail with her. May God give you as fair success in your desires as the sincerity of your thoughts deserve! and henceforward cease not on my account to love Galatea; for I am not of so mean a disposition that, if fortune fail me, I rejoice that others should not attain her. But I pray you, by what you owe to the good-will I show you, that you should not deny me your converse and friendship, since of mine you can be as sure as I have declared to you. Let our herds go united, since our thoughts go in unison. You to the sound of your pipe will declare the pleasure or the pain which Galatea's joyous or sorrowful countenance shall cause you, I to the sound of my rebeck, in the silence of the stilly night, or in the heat of the glowing noon-tide, in the cool shade of the green trees by which this bank of ours is made so fair, will help you to carry the heavy load of your trouble, proclaiming mine to Heaven. And in token of our good intent and true friendship, while the shadows of these trees grow longer, and the sun is declining towards the west, let us tune our instruments and make a beginning of the practice which henceforth we are to follow.'

Erastro did not need asking, but with signs of supreme content at seeing himself in such friendship with Elicio, drew forth his pipe, and Elicio his rebeck: and, one beginning, and the other replying, they sang what follows:

ELICIO. Ungrateful Love, thy servant thou didst place In sweet, caressing, peaceful bonds the day When first I saw the golden hair and face Of that fair sun that dimmed the sun's own ray. Straightway I came to drink with eager gaze Love's cruel bliss, which, like a serpent, lay Within the ruddy tresses; for 'twas there I saw the sun, amid the clustered hair.

ERASTRO. I stood amazed, and filled with rapturous flame, Voiceless was I like to a flinty rock, When Galatea's grace and beauty came, In all their loveliness my sight to mock. On my left side stood Love (ah bitter shame!), My love-lorn breast sustained his arrow's shock, A gate was opened in me by his dart Whereby the maid might come and steal my heart.

ELICIO. His breast, who, wretched, follows in thy train, Love, by what miracle dost open wide? What glory from the wound doth he attain, The wound that thou didst deal him in his side? Whence from the loss thou sendest, comes the gain? And whence the joyous life when thou hast died? The soul that hath endured these at thine hand The cause, but not the ways can understand.

ERASTRO. So many faces in a broken glass Are seen not, nor in glass formed with such art, That if one looks therein, one sees to pass A multitude portrayed in every part, As are the cares on cares that spring, alas! From that cruel care, which from my shattered heart Goes not away, though conqueror in the strife, Until it doth depart along with life.

ELICIO. The white snow of her cheek, the crimson rose Which neither summer wastes nor winter's cold, The sun's twain morning-stars, wherein repose Soft Love doth find, the spot where time untold Shall guard the voice, strong to subdue our woes, As did hell's furies Orpheus' voice of old, The many charms I saw, though blind I ween, Have made me tinder for the fire unseen.

ERASTRO. Twain apples rosy-red no tree can bear As those in Galatea's cheeks displayed; Iris herself could boast no bow so fair As the twain archèd eye-brows of the maid, Two rays of light, two threads, beyond compare, Of pearls 'twixt scarlet:--and if more be said-- The peerless graces which in her I find A cloud have made me to the amorous wind.

ELICIO. I burn nor am consumed, I live and die, Far from myself am I and yet so near, I sink to hell, I rise to Heaven on high, One thing alone I hope, and yet I fear. Gentle, yet fierce--for what I loathe I sigh, To love thee racks my soul with torment drear, Thus step by step already am I come, Drawn in these different ways to my last doom.

ERASTRO. Elicio, mark! how gladly would I pour At Galatea's feet all that she hath left To me in life, if but she would restore The heart and soul whereof I am bereft. My herd I would bestow, and furthermore My Spot and Hawk, if she would but the theft Forego: but ah! the goddess on her throne More than aught else would have my soul alone.

ELICIO. Erastro, mark! if once the heart on high Be placed by fate, or chance, or what you will, To pluck it down 'twere foolishness to try By force, or art, or any human skill. Rejoice that she is blessed; though thou canst die In truth without her, 'tis my thought that still No life on earth can be more full of bliss Than death for such a noble cause as this.

Erastro was already setting himself to follow on in his song when they perceived, by a thickly wooded hillock which was at their back, no slight clamour and sound; and, both rising to their feet to see what it was, they saw a shepherd descending from the mountain, running at the greatest speed in the world, with a naked knife in his hand, and the hue of his countenance changed, and, coming after him, another shepherd swift of foot, who in a few strides overtook the first, and seizing him by the collar of his skin-coat, raised his arm in the air as high as he could, and a sharp dagger which he carried unsheathed, and buried it twice in his body, saying:

'Receive, oh ill-starred Leonida, the life of this traitor, which I offer up in vengeance of your death.'

This happened with such rapidity that Elicio and Erastro had not the opportunity to stop him; for they came up at the time when the stricken shepherd was already giving out his last breath, struggling to utter these few ill-formed words:

'Would that you had allowed me, Lisandro, to satisfy Heaven with a longer repentance for the wrong I did you, and had then taken from me the life which, for the reason I have said, now departs from this flesh ill-content.'

And without being able to say more he closed his eyes in everlasting night. By these words Elicio and Erastro fancied that for no small cause had the other shepherd inflicted on him so cruel and violent a death. And the better to inform themselves of the whole occurrence, they would fain have inquired of the murderous shepherd; but he, with retreating step, leaving the shepherd dead and the two wondering, turned to go back into the hillock beyond. And when Elicio desired to follow him, and to learn from him what he wished, they saw him come again out of the wood, and, being a good space distant from them, in a loud voice he said to them:

'Pardon me, gentle shepherds, if I have not been gentle in having wrought in your presence that which you have seen, for the just and mortal rage which I had conceived against that traitor did not permit a more moderate course on my part. What I counsel you is, that, if you would not anger the Deity that dwells in high Heaven, you should not offer the last rites and accustomed prayers for the traitorous soul of that body which you have before you, nor give it burial, if here in your country it is not the custom to give it to traitors.'

And, saying this, he turned with all speed to go into the forest, with so much haste as to take away from Elicio the hope of overtaking him, even though he followed him. And so the twain with tender hearts turned to perform the pious office, and to give burial, as best they could, to the wretched body, which had so suddenly ended the course of its short days. Erastro went to his hut which was not far away, and, bringing sufficient implements, made a grave at the very spot where the body was; and, bidding it the last farewell, they placed it therein. Not without compassion for his hapless lot they returned to their herds, and, collecting them again with some haste (for the sun was already entering with all speed by the gates of the west), betook themselves to their accustomed shelters, where neither the comfort they felt therein, nor the little that his cares allowed him, could keep Elicio from wondering what causes had moved the two shepherds to come to so desperate a pass; and already he regretted that he had not followed the murderous shepherd, and learnt from him, if possible, what he wished. With this thought, and with the many that his love caused in him, after leaving his herd in a place of safety, he went out from his hut, as was his wont at other times, and by the light of the beauteous Diana, who showed herself resplendent in the sky, he entered the denseness of a dense wood beyond, seeking some solitary spot where, in the silence of the night, with greater peace he might give rein to his amorous fancies: for it is an assured fact that, to sad, fanciful hearts, there is no greater joy than solitude, the awakener of sad or happy memories. And thus going little by little, enjoying a gentle breeze which blew against his face, full of most delicate scents, which from the scented flowers wherewith the green earth was heaped it gently stole, as it passed through them wrapped in the delicate air, he heard a voice as of one who grievously complained, and checking for a while his breath within him, so that the sound might not hinder him from hearing what it was, he perceived that from some thickset bramble bushes, a little way off, the mournful voice proceeded, and though interrupted by endless sighs, he understood that it uttered these sad words:

'Cowardly and craven arm, mortal enemy of that which you owe to yourself, look, naught now remains on which to take vengeance, save yourself! What does it profit you to prolong the life I hold in so great abhorrence? If you think that our ill is of those that time is wont to heal, you live deceived, for there is nothing more remote from cure than our misfortune: seeing that she who might have made mine pleasant, had a life so short that, in the green years of her joyous youth, she offered it to the blood-thirsty knife, that it might take it from her, through the treason of the wicked Carino. He to-day, by losing his own, will have in part appeased that blessed soul of Leonida, if, in the heavenly region where she dwells, she can cherish desire for any vengeance. Ah, Carino, Carino! I beseech the high Heavens, if by them just prayers are heard, not to heed the plea, if any you offer, for the treachery you have done me, and to suffer that your body may lack burial, even as your soul lacked mercy. And you, fair and hapless Leonida, receive, in token of the love I bore you in life, the tears I shed at your death; and put it not down to lack of feeling that I do not end my life, with all I feel at your death: for a grief that should end so soon would be a scant return for what I ought and wish to feel. You will see, if you take account of things here, how this wretched body will one day be consumed by grief, little by little, for its greater grief and suffering: even as powder, moist and kindled, which, without making a noise, or raising a flame on high, is consumed in itself, without leaving of itself aught save the traces of consumed ashes. It grieves me as much as it can grieve me, oh soul of my soul, seeing that I could not enjoy you in life, that in death I cannot perform for you the last rites and honours which befitted your goodness and virtue; but I promise to you, and swear, for the short time--and it will be very short--that this impassioned soul of mine shall rule the heavy burden of this wretched body, and my weary voice have breath to form it, not to treat aught else in my sad and bitter songs save your praises and deserts.'

At this point the voice ceased, from the sound of which Elicio clearly perceived that it was the murderous shepherd; whereat he was much rejoiced, because it seemed to him that he was in a position to learn from him what he desired. And, wishing to approach more closely, he needs must stop again, for it seemed to him that the shepherd was tuning a rebeck, and he wished first to hear if he should say anything to its sound. And he did not wait long before he heard him, with gentle and tuneful voice, singing after this wise:

LISANDRO. Blest soul, that from the veil Of human life below

Free to the realms above didst, deathless, wing, Leaving as in a jail Of misery and woe This life of mine which yet to thee did cling! The bright light of the spring, When thou art gone is dead, And beaten to the ground The hope I thought to found On that firm seat where joy its radiance shed. Alas! when thou wert gone, My life died too: naught lived save grief alone.

Death claimed thee for his prey, He revelled in his prize, Thy loveliness beyond compare he marred; He came to take away The light of these mine eyes Which gazed on thee and did their riches hoard. Swiftly beneath his sword, Like wax in summer's sun Or cloud before the wind, The fancies of my mind Which sprang from glorious Love have been undone. The stone above thy tomb Shuts in my fortune and declares my doom.

How could thy brother speed His cruel, ruthless hand In hot revengeful purpose 'gainst thy heart? How came the wicked deed To tear thee from the land And set thee from thy mortal veil apart? Why sought he with his dart Two lovers thus to sever? Our love had had no end, Our pathway would we wend In holy wedlock hand in hand for ever. Command why didst thou give, Cruel, scornful hand! that dying I should live?

My hapless soul shall spend The days, the months, the years, In sad laments that ne'er shall reach their close. 'Midst joys that have no end Thy soul shall know no fears Of stubborn time--forgot for aye thy woes; Secure in thy repose, The bliss thou shalt behold That thy good life hath won Which ne'er shall be undone: Him that so loved thee in remembrance hold, If unto thee be given To keep remembrance of the earth in Heaven.

Blest, lovely soul above! How foolish have I been To ask that thou shouldst mind thee of thy swain; Who gave thee all his love. Eternally, I ween, Shall I, if thou art kind, thus feel my pain. 'Twere better for my gain That I should be forgot, That woe should waste away The life that yet doth stay, That I should perish 'neath my cruel lot, Since in my bitter grief Death's ill I count not ill, but sweet relief.

Amidst the holy choir, Amongst the sainted dead, Dear soul! enjoy the wealth of Heaven's delight, That fears nor time nor fire; The mercies that are shed On all who flee not from the path of right. I hope to reach that height, To dwell with thee in bliss, Amidst eternal spring, If to thy steps I cling And know no dread nor yet the pathway miss. Oh lead me to this goal! For such a deed as this befits thy soul.

And then, blest souls that dwell in Heaven, behold The good that I desire, Enlarge the wings of this my good desire.

Here ceased the voice, but not the sighs of the hapless swain who had sung, and both served to increase in Elicio the desire to know who he was. And bursting through the thorny brambles so as to reach more quickly the spot whence the voice proceeded, he came to a little meadow which, in the fashion of a theatre, was girt all round with very dense and tangled shrubs; and there he saw a shepherd who was standing in an attitude of great vigour, with his right foot advanced and his left behind, his right arm raised in the manner of one hoping to make a mighty throw. And such was the truth, for at the noise which Elicio had made in bursting through the bushes, he, thinking it was some wild beast (against which the woodland shepherds were forced to defend themselves), had placed himself in a position to hurl at him a weighty stone he was holding in his hand. Elicio, perceiving his intent by his posture, before he could accomplish it, said to him: 'Calm your bosom, hapless shepherd, for he who comes hither, brings a bosom ready for all you might ask of it; desire to learn your fortune has made him break in upon your tears, and disturb the solace which might attend upon you in solitude.'

With these gentle and courteous words of Elicio the shepherd was calmed, and with no less gentleness replied to him, saying: 'I gratefully acknowledge your kind offer, whoever you be, courteous shepherd; but, as for fortune, if you desire to learn mine who never had any, you will scarce be able to have your wish.' 'You speak true,' answered Elicio, 'since from the words and plaints I this night have heard from you, you clearly show the little or none that you have. But you will no less satisfy my desire by telling me your troubles than by making known to me your joys. May fortune give you these in what you desire, so that you do not deny me what I beg of you, if indeed your not knowing me do not prevent it; although I would have you know, so as to reassure and move you, that I have not a soul so happy as not to feel as much as it should the miseries you would recount to me. This I tell you, for I know that nothing is more wasted, nay thrown away, than for an unhappy man to recount his woes to one whose heart is brimful with joys.' 'Your kindly words,' answered the shepherd, 'compel me to satisfy you in what you ask me, not only that you may not fancy that from a mean and craven soul spring the complaints and lamentations you say you have heard from me, but also that you may realise that the feeling I show is but small as compared with the cause I have for showing it.'

Elicio thanked him heartily, and after some more courteous words had passed between the two, Elicio giving proof that he was a true friend of the woodland shepherd, the latter, recognising that they were not feigned promises, granted in the end what Elicio asked. The twain sate them down on the green grass, covered with the splendour of the fair Diana, who could that night rival her brother in brightness, and the woodland shepherd, with tokens of a tender grief, began to speak in this wise:

'On the banks of the Betis, a stream exceeding rich in waters, which enriches great Vandalia, was born Lisandro (for that is my luckless name), and of parents so noble that I would to Almighty God I had been begotten in a lowlier station; for ofttimes nobility of lineage lends wings and strength to the soul to raise the eyes to where a humble lot would never dare to raise them, and from such boldness calamities are often wont to spring such as you shall hear from me, if with attention you will listen to me. In my village was also born a shepherdess, whose name was Leonida, the sum of all the beauty which, as I fancy, could be found in a great part of the world,--born of parents no less noble and wealthy than her beauty and virtue deserved. Whence it came to pass that, the parents of both being among the chief people of the place, and the rule and government of the village being vested in them, envy, the deadly enemy of a peaceful life, brought about strife and mortal discord between them over some differences concerning the administration of the village, in such a manner that the village was divided into two factions; the one followed that of my parents, the other that of Leonida's, with so deep-rooted a hatred and malice that no human effort has been able to bring about peace between them. Fate then decreed, as though to shut out every prospect of friendship, that I should fall in love with the fair Leonida, daughter of Parmindro, the head of the opposite faction; and my love was, indeed, so great that, though I strove in countless ways to put it from my heart, they all ended in my remaining yet more vanquished and enslaved. Before me rose a mountain of difficulties, which hindered me from gaining the end of my desire, such as Leonida's great worth, the inveterate enmity of our parents, the few or no occasions which presented themselves to me for disclosing my thoughts to her: and yet, whenever I turned the eyes of fancy towards the rare beauty of Leonida, every difficulty was made smooth, so that it seemed to me a little thing to break through sharp points of adamant, that I might reach the goal of my loving and honourable thoughts. Having then for many days battled with myself, to see if I could turn my soul from a design so arduous, and seeing that it was impossible, I set all my skill on considering how I might give Leonida to understand the secret love in my breast. And even as, in any matter, the beginnings are always difficult, so in those that relate to love they are for the most exceedingly difficult, until Love himself, when he wishes to show himself favourable, opens the gates of the remedy, where they seem most closely barred. Thus it appeared in my case, for my thought being guided by his, I came to fancy that no better means presented themselves to my desire than to make friends with the parents of Silvia, a shepherdess who was a bosom friend of Leonida, and often they visited each other at their houses, in company with their parents. Silvia had a kinsman called Carino, a very close companion of Crisalvo, fair Leonida's brother, whose boldness and harshness of manner had gained him the nickname of cruel, and so, by all those who knew him, he was generally called cruel Crisalvo; and in the same way they called Carino, Silvia's kinsman and Crisalvo's companion, the cunning Carino, from his being officious and sharp-witted. With him and with Silvia (for it seemed to serve my purpose) by means of many presents and gifts I forged a friendship, to outward seeming: at least on Silvia's side it was stronger than I desired, for the presents and favours, which with pure heart she bestowed on me, constrained by my unceasing services, were by my fortune taken as instruments to place me in the misery where now I see myself. Silvia was passing fair, and adorned with graces so many that the hardness of Crisalvo's savage heart was moved to love her (but this I did not learn save to my hurt); and many days later, after that from long experience I was sure of Silvia's good-will, an opportunity offering itself one day, in the tenderest words I could, I disclosed to her the wound in my stricken breast, telling her that, though it was so deep and dangerous, I did not feel it so much, only because I thought that in her solicitude lay its cure. I informed her, too, of the honourable goal to which my thoughts were tending, which was to unite myself in lawful wedlock with the beauteous Leonida; and that, since it was a cause so just and good, she must not disdain to take it under her care. Finally, not to weary you, love furnished me with such words to say to her, that she, being overcome by them and more by the pain which she, like a clever woman, recognised from the signs of my face as dwelling in my soul, determined to take charge of my cure, and to tell Leonida what I felt for her, promising to do for me all that her power and skill might achieve, even though such an undertaking was fraught with difficulties for her, by reason of the great enmity she knew to exist between our parents; though, on the other hand she thought that it might put an end to their differences, if Leonida were to marry me. Moved then by this good intention, and softened by the tears I shed, as I have said before, she dared to intercede on behalf of my happiness, and, discussing with herself how she would approach Leonida, she made me write her a letter, which she offered to give her at the moment she thought fitting. Her counsel seemed to be for my good, and that same day I sent her a letter, which I have always known by heart, as having been the beginning of the happiness I felt at the reply to it, though it would be better not to remember happy things at a time so sad as that in which I now find myself. Silvia received the letter, and awaited the opportunity for placing it in Leonida's hands.'

'Nay,' said Elicio, interrupting Lisandro's discourse, 'it is not right that you should fail to repeat to me the letter you sent to Leonida, for, seeing that it was the first, and that you were so deeply in love at that time, it must undoubtedly be eloquent. And since you have told me that you know it by heart, and of the pleasure you obtained from it, do not now withhold it from me by not repeating it.'

'You say well, my friend,' replied Lisandro, 'for I was then as deeply in love and timid as now I am unhappy and despairing; and, on that account, it seems to me that I did not succeed in uttering any eloquent words, though it was sufficient success that Leonida should believe those which were in the letter. Since you wish so much to hear them, it ran as follows:

LISANDRO TO LEONIDA.

"So long as I have been able (though with very great grief to myself) to resist with my own strength the amorous flame which for you, fair Leonida, consumes me, fearful of the exalted worth which I recognise in you, I have never had the boldness to discover to you the love I bear you; but now that the virtue, which up till now has made me strong, is consumed, it has become necessary for me to disclose the wound in my breast, and thus, by writing to you, to make trial of the first and last remedy in your power. What the first may be, you know, and to be the last is in your hand, from which I hope for the pity that your beauty promises, and my honourable desires merit. What they are, and the goal to which they tend, you shall learn from Silvia, who will give you this: and since she has been so bold, being who she is, as to bring it to you, know that they are as honourable as is due to your merit".'

The words of this letter did not seem bad to Elicio, and Lisandro, continuing the story of his love, said:

'Many days did not pass before this letter came into the fair hands of Leonida, by means of the kindly hands of Silvia, my true friend. In giving it, she told her such things that she largely assuaged the rage and emotion which Leonida had felt at my letter, such as telling her how good it would be if through our marriage the enmity of our parents were to cease, and that an object so well meant should lead her not to reject my desires; all the more as it should not be compatible with her beauty to allow one who loved her as much as I to die, without more consideration; adding to these other reasonings, which Leonida recognised as just. But, so as not to show herself vanquished in the first encounter, and won in the first advance, she did not give to Silvia as pleasant a reply as she wished. But still, at the intercession of Silvia, who forced her to it, she replied with this letter which I shall now repeat to you:

LEONIDA TO LISANDRO.

"If I had thought, Lisandro, that your great daring had sprung from my lack of modesty, I would have carried out on myself the punishment that your fault deserves; but as what I know of myself makes me sure on this point, I have come to the conclusion that your great boldness has proceeded more from idle thoughts, than from thoughts of love; and though they may be as you say, think not that you can move me to cure them, as you did Silvia to believe them. I complain more of her for having made me answer you, than of you who dared to write to me, for silence had been fit answer to your folly. If you draw back from your purpose, you will act wisely, for I would have you know that I deem my honour of more account than your empty thoughts."

This was Leonida's reply, which, together with the hopes that Silvia gave me, though it seemed somewhat harsh, made me count myself the happiest man on earth. Whilst these matters were passing between us, Crisalvo did not neglect to woo Silvia with countless messages, gifts and services; but so hard and severe was Crisalvo's disposition that he could never move Silvia to grant him the smallest favour. Whereat he was as desperate and impatient as a bull when speared and vanquished. For the sake of his love he had formed a friendship with the cunning Carino, Silvia's kinsman, though these two had first been mortal enemies, for in a wrestling-bout, which on a great feast-day the deftest swains of the place held before all the village, Carino was vanquished by Crisalvo, and mauled: so that he conceived in his heart undying hatred for Crisalvo, and no less was the hatred he felt against another person, a brother of mine, for having thwarted him in a love-affair, in which my brother carried off the fruit Carino hoped for. This rancour and ill-will Carino kept secret till time disclosed to him the opportunity when he might avenge himself on both at once, in the cruellest way imaginable. I kept friends with him, so that admission to Silvia's house might not be denied me; Crisalvo adored him, so that he might further his designs with Silvia; and his friendship was such that whenever Leonida came to Silvia's house, Carino accompanied her: wherefore it seemed good to Silvia to tell him, since he was my friend, of my love-affair with Leonida, which was by this time prospering with such ardour and good fortune, through Silvia's good offices, that we now awaited but the time and place to cull the honourable fruit of our pure desires. On hearing of this, Carino used me as an instrument to commit the greatest treason in the world. For one day (feigning to be true to Crisalvo, and giving him to understand that he rated his friendship higher than his kinswoman's honour), he told him that the chief reason why Silvia did not love or favour him, was that she was in love with me; he knew it unmistakably, and our love-affair was going on so openly that if he had not been blinded by his amorous passion he would by now have perceived it from a thousand signs; and the more to assure himself of the truth he was telling him, he bade him look to it henceforward, for he would see clearly how Silvia without any restraint granted me exceptional favours. At this news Crisalvo must have been quite beside himself, as appeared from what followed therefrom. Henceforward he employed spies to watch my dealings with Silvia; and as on many occasions I sought to be alone with her, in order to speak not of the love he thought, but of things concerning mine, these were reported to Crisalvo, together with other favours prompted by pure friendship, which Silvia showed me at every step. Whereat Crisalvo came to so desperate a pass, that many times he sought to kill me, though I did not think it was for such a cause, but on account of the long-standing enmity of our parents. But as he was Leonida's brother, I was more concerned to guard myself than to harm him, thinking it certain that if I married his sister our enmities would have an end. Of this he was quite ignorant, thinking rather that, because I was his enemy, I had sought to make love to Silvia, and not because I was really fond of her; and this increased his anger and resentment to such a degree that it robbed him of reason, though he had so little that little was needed to destroy it. And this evil thought wrought so strongly in him, that he came to loath Silvia as much as he had loved her, merely because she favoured me, not with the good-will he thought, but as Carino told him. And so, in whatever circle or assembly he was, he spoke ill of Silvia, giving her dishonourable names and epithets. But as all knew his ugly character and Silvia's goodness, they lent little or no belief to his words. Meanwhile Silvia had arranged with Leonida that we two should be married, and, in order that it might be done with more safety to ourselves, that it would be well for Leonida, one day when she came with Carino to her house, not to return that night to that of her parents, but to go thence in Carino's company to a village half a league distant from ours, where some rich kinsmen of mine lived, in whose house we could with greater peace effect our designs. For if Leonida's parents were not pleased at the issue, it would at least be easier, when she was away from them, to come to terms. This resolve having been taken, Carino was informed of it, and, displaying the greatest spirit, offered to Silvia to escort Leonida to the other village as she desired. The services I did to Carino for the good-will he showed, the promises I uttered to him, the embraces I gave him, would methinks have sufficed to extinguish in a heart of steel any evil purpose it might cherish against me. But that traitor of a Carino, casting behind him my words, deeds and promises, without regarding what he owed himself, planned the treason which now you shall hear. Having informed himself of Leonida's wish, and seeing that it agreed with what Silvia had told him, he planned that on the first night which from the appearance of the day promised to be dark, Leonida's departure should be effected, offering once more to maintain all possible secrecy and loyalty. After making this agreement which you have heard, he went off to Crisalvo, as I have since learnt, and told him that his kinswoman Silvia had gone so far in her love-affair with me, that I had determined on a certain night to steal her from her parents' house, and take her to another village where my kinsmen dwelt. There an opportunity offered itself to avenge his feelings on both, on Silvia for the small account she had made of his services, on me for our long-standing enmity, and for the injury I had done him in robbing him of Silvia, since she was leaving him on my account alone. Carino knew how to exaggerate to him, and to say what he wanted, in such a way as, even with less effort, would have moved to any evil purpose a heart not so cruel as his. The day being now arrived which I thought was to be the day of my greatest bliss, after having told Carino not what he actually did do, but what he was to do, I went off to the other village to give orders how to receive Leonida. And to leave her entrusted to Carino was like leaving the innocent lamb in the power of the hungry wolves, or the gentle dove in the claws of the fierce hawk, who tears it to pieces. Ah, friend! when I come to this point with my imagination, I know not how I have strength to sustain life, nor thought to think of it, much more tongue to tell it! Ah, ill-advised Lisandro! How did you not know Carino's duplicity? Yet, who would not have trusted his words, since he risked so little in proving them true by deeds! Ah, ill-starred Leonida! how little did I know how to enjoy the favour you did me, in choosing me for your own! Finally, to end with the tragedy of my misfortune, you must know, discreet shepherd, that on the night Carino was to take Leonida with him to the village where I was expecting her, he summoned another shepherd, called Libeo, who ought to have considered him an enemy, though Carino concealed it beneath his wonted false dissimulation, and asked him to accompany him that night, for he was resolved to carry off a shepherdess, his sweetheart, to the village I have told you, where he purposed to marry her. Libeo, a man of spirit and a lover himself, readily offered him his company. Leonida bade farewell to Silvia with close embraces and loving tears, an omen, as it were, that it was to be the last farewell. The hapless maid must needs have thought then of the treason she was committing against her parents; not of that Carino was planning against her,--and how bad a return she was making for the good opinion that was held about her in the village. But, passing over all these thoughts, constrained by the loving thought that vanquished her, she entrusted herself to the care of Carino, who was to conduct her to where I awaited her. How often do I call to mind when I reach this point, what I dreamed the day I would have counted fortunate, had the number of my days ended thereon! I remember that, leaving the village a little while before the sun withdrew his rays from our horizon, I sate me down at the foot of a tall ash tree on the very road by which Leonida was to come, waiting till night should close in a little more to further my purpose and to receive her, and without knowing how or wishing it, I fell asleep. Scarce had I yielded my eyes to slumber when, methought, the tree against which I leaned, bending before the fury of a fierce wind that was blowing, tearing its deep roots out of the earth, fell upon my body, and attempting to get away from the heavy weight, I rolled from side to side. While in this plight methought I saw a white hind beside me, which I earnestly implored to lift, as well as it could, the heavy burden from my shoulders, and when moved with compassion, it was about to do it, at the same moment a fierce lion sprang from the thicket, and seizing it in his sharp claws, marched off with it through the forest. After I had escaped with great toil from the heavy burden, I went to look for it in the mountain, and found it torn and wounded in a thousand places. Whereat I felt so much grief that my soul was wrung from me merely by reason of the pity it had shown at my plight: and thus I began to weep in my dreams, so that the tears themselves awoke me, and finding my cheeks bathed with sorrow I was beside myself, pondering on what I had dreamed; but in the joy I hoped to have in seeing my Leonida, I failed to see then that fortune was showing me in dreams what was to happen in a short time to me awake. At the moment when I awoke night had just closed in with such darkness, with such terrible thunder and lightning as furthered the perpetration of the cruel deed which that night was perpetrated. As Carino left Silvia's house with Leonida, he entrusted her to Libeo, telling him to go with her by the road to the village I have mentioned, and though Leonida was perturbed at seeing Libeo, Carino assured her that Libeo was no less a friend of mine than he was, and that in security she could go with him slowly whilst he went forward to give me tidings of her approach. The guileless maid, being after all in love, believed the words of the treacherous Carino, and with less mistrust than was fitting, guided by the courteous Libeo, advanced her timid steps, which were to be the last of her life, thinking they led her to the height of her bliss. Carino went on before the two, as I have already told you, and gave information of what was happening to Crisalvo, who with four of his kinsmen was in ambush on the very road by which they were to pass, this being wholly shut in by forest on either side. He told them how Silvia was coming and I was the only one with her, and that they should rejoice at the good opportunity fate put in their hands to avenge the wrong we two had done him, and that he should be the first to prove the edge of his knife on Silvia, though she was a kinswoman of his. Immediately the five cruel butchers prepared to stain themselves in the innocent blood of the pair who came along the road all unsuspicious of such treason; when they reached the place where the ambush was, at once the traitorous murderers were on them, and surrounded them. Crisalvo came up to Leonida, thinking she was Silvia, and with insulting and excited words, in the hellish rage which mastered him, left her stretched on the ground with six mortal wounds, whilst Libeo weltered on the earth with countless stabs dealt by the other four, who thought they were inflicting them on me. When Carino saw how well his traitorous intent had turned out, without awaiting words, he went away, and the five traitors, fully satisfied as if they had done some notable exploit, returned to their village. Crisalvo went to Silvia's house himself to give her parents the news of what he had done, so as to increase their grief and pain, telling them to go and bury their daughter Silvia, whose life he had taken because she had set more store on the cold esteem of Lisandro his enemy, than on the unremitting attentions shown by him. Silvia, who heard what Crisalvo was saying,--her soul telling her what had happened, told him that she was alive, and free too from all that he had accused her of; and that he should be sure he had not killed one whose death would grieve him more than the loss of his own life. And with this she told him that his sister Leonida had that night left her house in unwonted apparel. Crisalvo was amazed to see Silvia alive, thinking for sure that he had left her dead, and being suddenly seized with great fear, immediately hastened to his house, and not finding his sister there, returned alone in the greatest consternation and frenzy to see who it was he had killed, since Silvia was alive. Whilst all this was going on, I was awaiting Carino and Leonida with strange anxiety; and as it seemed to me that by this time they were later than they should be, I wished to go and meet them, or learn if by any accident they had been detained that night. I had not gone far along the road when I heard a piteous voice saying: "Oh sovereign Maker of Heaven, withhold the hand of thy justice and open that of thy mercy in order to show mercy to this soul, which soon shall give account to thee of the offences it has committed against thee! Ah Lisandro, Lisandro! surely Carino's friendship will yet cost you your life, since it cannot be that grief for my having lost mine for your sake will put an end to it! Ah, cruel brother, can it be that without hearing my excuses you desired to inflict on me so soon the punishment of my error?" When I heard these words, I at once recognised from the voice and from them that it was Leonida who uttered them, and--an augury of my misfortune--with feelings in a turmoil, I set to groping where Leonida was weltering in her own blood; and, having at once recognised her, I let myself fall on her wounded body, and with the greatest grief possible, said to her: "What woe is this, my joy, my soul? what cruel hand was it that did not respect so much beauty?" At these words I was recognised by Leonida; and raising her weary arms with much effort, she threw them round my neck, and, pressing with all her strength, she joined her mouth to mine, and, with weak and broken utterance, spoke but these words to me: "My brother has killed me, Carino ... betrayed, Libeo is without life, and may God give you yours, Lisandro mine, for long and happy years, and may he grant that I enjoy in another life the peace denied me here;" and, joining her mouth closer to mine, she pressed her lips together to give me her first and last kiss; and, as she opened them, her soul went from her, and she lay dead in my arms. When I perceived it, I abandoned myself to grief over her body, and remained senseless; and if, instead of being alive, I had been dead, whoever saw us in that plight had called to mind the hapless plight of Pyramus and Thisbe. But on coming to myself, I had opened my mouth to fill the air with cries and sobs, when I perceived someone coming with hurried steps to where I was; and, when he was near, though the night was dark, the eyes of my soul gave me assurance that he who came there was Crisalvo, as was the truth. He was coming back to convince himself whether perchance it was his sister Leonida he had killed. When I recognised him, before he could guard himself against me, I came upon him like a raging lion; and, giving him two blows, I brought him to the ground. Before he ceased to breathe, I dragged him to where Leonida was, and, placing in her dead hand the dagger her brother wore--the same with which she had been killed--I guided it and plunged it thrice through his heart. And mine being somewhat consoled by Crisalvo's death, without further delay I took upon my shoulders Leonida's body, and bore it to the village where my kinsmen lived. Telling them what had happened, I asked them to give it honourable burial, and immediately determined to take on Carino the same vengeance as on Crisalvo; but, since he has kept away from our village, it has been delayed until to-day, when I found him on the skirts of this wood, after going about in search of him for six months. Now he has come to the end his treason deserved; and none now is left on whom to wreak vengeance, unless it be the life I endure so much against my will. This, shepherd, is the cause whence proceed the laments you have heard from me. If it seems to you sufficient to cause yet a deeper grief, I leave to your good judgment to determine!'

Therewith he ended his discourse, and set to weeping so copiously that Elicio could not refrain from keeping him company therein; but after they had for a long while eased with gentle sighs, the one the pain he suffered, the other the compassion he felt thereat, Elicio began to console Lisandro with the best arguments he knew, though his misfortune was as far beyond consolation as he had seen from its issue. Amongst other things he said to him, the one which gave Lisandro most solace was to tell him that in misfortunes beyond remedy, the best remedy was to hope for none; and, since one might believe from Leonida's purity and noble disposition, according to his account, that she was enjoying a life of bliss, he should rather rejoice at the happiness she had gained, than grieve for that which she had lost. Whereto Lisandro replied:

'I know full well, my friend, that your arguments have power to make me believe they are true; but not that they have--nor will all the arguments in the world have--power to give me any consolation. With Leonida's death began my evil fortune, which will end when I behold her again; and since this cannot be without I die, the man who should help me to attain death will I count the greatest friend of my life!'

Elicio did not wish to give him more sorrow with his words of solace, since he did not regard them as such; only he asked him to come with him to his hut, where he might stay as long as it pleased him, offering him his friendship in all wherein he might be able to serve him. Lisandro thanked him as heartily as possible; and though he was unwilling to consent to go with Elicio, yet he had to do so, constrained by his repeated asking. And so the two arose, and came to Elicio's cabin, where they rested for the little that remained of the night. Now when the white dawn was leaving the couch of her jealous husband, and beginning to give signs of the coming day, Erastro arose and began to put in order Elicio's herd and his own to lead them to the accustomed pasture. Elicio invited Lisandro to come with him; and so, when the three shepherds came with their gentle flock of sheep through a ravine below, on ascending an incline, they heard the sound of a gentle pipe, which was straightway recognized by the two enamoured swains, Elicio and Erastro, for it was Galatea who was playing it. And it was not long before some sheep began to show themselves over the crest of the hill, and immediately behind them Galatea, whose beauty was such that it were better to leave it to speak for itself, since words fail to enhance it. She came dressed like a girl of the mountains, with her long hair free to the wind, whereof the sun himself appeared to be envious, for, smiting it with his rays, he sought to rob it of lustre if he could; but that which came from the glimmer of it seemed another new sun. Erastro was beside himself looking at her, and Elicio could not keep his eyes from gazing at her. When Galatea saw the flock of Elicio and Erastro join hers, she showed that she did not wish that day to keep them company, and called to the pet lamb of her flock, which the rest followed, and directed it to another spot, different from that for which the shepherds were making. Elicio, seeing what Galatea was doing, and being unable to endure such open contempt, came to where the shepherdess was and said to her:

'Permit your flock, fair Galatea, to come with ours, and, if you do not like our company, choose that which will please you better, for your sheep will not, through your absence, lack good pasturage, since I, who was born to serve you, will take more care of them than of my own. Do not seek to disdain me so openly, for the pure affection I cherish towards you does not deserve it. According to the way you were taking, you were making for the spring of slates, but, now you have seen me, you wish to change your road; and, if this is as I think, tell me where you wish, to-day and always, to graze your herd, for I swear to you never to take mine there.'

'I assure you, Elicio,' replied Galatea, 'that it was not to shun your company or that of Erastro that I have changed the way you think I was taking, for my intention is to spend the noon-tide of to-day by the stream of palms, in the company of my friend Florisa, who is awaiting me there, for as early as yesterday we two agreed to graze our flocks there to-day. As I came along, heedlessly playing my pipe, the pet lamb took the road of slates, as more accustomed for it. For the affection you bear me and the offers you make me I thank you, and count it no small thing that I have justified myself against your suspicion.'

'Ah, Galatea!' replied Elicio, 'how well you invent what seems good to you, though you have so little need to use stratagem with me, for after all I do not seek to wish more than you wish! Now, whether you go to the stream of palms, to the wood of council, or to the spring of slates, be assured that you cannot go alone, for my soul accompanies you always; and, if you do not see it, it is because you do not wish to see it, so that you may not be obliged to heal it.'

'Until now,' said Galatea, 'I have yet to see my first soul, and so I am not to blame if I have healed none.'

'I do not know how you can say that, fair Galatea,' replied Elicio, 'since you see them to wound them, and not to heal them.'

'You accuse me falsely,' replied Galatea, 'in saying that I have wounded anyone without arms, seeing that these are not granted to women.'

'Ah, discreet Galatea,' said Elicio, 'how you jest at what you perceive of my soul, which you have invisibly wounded, and with no other arms than those of your beauty! I do not so much complain of the wrong you have done me, as that you hold it in little account.'

'I would hold myself in less account, if I held it in more,' replied Galatea.

At this moment Erastro came up, and, seeing that Galatea was going off and leaving them, said to her:

'Where are you going, whom do you flee, fair Galatea? If you part from us who adore you, who shall hope for your company? Ah fair foe! how heedlessly you go your way, triumphing over our affections! May Heaven destroy the warm affection I bear you, if I do not long to see you in love with some one who may value your plaints in the same degree as you value mine! Do you laugh at what I say, Galatea? Then I weep at what you do.'

Galatea could not answer Erastro, for she was going away, guiding her flock towards the stream of palms; and bowing her head from afar in token of farewell, she left them. When she saw herself alone, whilst she was making for the spot where her friend Florisa thought she would be, with the exquisite voice Heaven had pleased to give her, she went along singing this sonnet:

GALATEA. Away with noose and frost, with dart and fire, Whereby to strangle, freeze, or wound or burn, Love doth essay! 'Tis vain: my soul doth yearn For no such knot, nor doth such flame desire. Let each bind, freeze, kill, press, consume in ire, 'Gainst any other will its anger turn, But mine shall snow or net or arrow spurn, To hold me in its heat let none aspire. My chaste intent will chill the burning flame, The knot I shall break through by force or art, My glowing zeal will melt away the snows, The arrow shall fall blunted by my shame, And thus nor noose nor fire, nor frost nor dart, Shall make me fear, safe in secure repose.

With juster cause might beasts stand still, trees move and stones unite on hearing Galatea's gentle song and sweet harmony than when to Orpheus' lute, Apollo's lyre, or Amphion's music the walls of Troy and Thebes of their own accord set themselves in the ground without any craftsman laying hand thereon, and the sisters, dark dwellers in deepest chaos, grew gentle at the exquisite voice of the unheeding lover. Galatea finished her song, and at the moment came to where Florisa was, by whom she was received with joyous mien, as being her true friend, and she to whom Galatea was wont to tell her thoughts. After the two had allowed their flocks to go at their will to graze on the green grass, they determined, invited by the clearness of the water of a stream flowing by, to wash their beauteous faces; for, to enhance their beauty, they had no need of the vain and irksome arts whereby those ladies in great cities who think themselves most beautiful, torture theirs. They remained as beautiful after washing as before, save that, through having rubbed their faces with their hands, their cheeks remained aflame and blushing-red, so that an indescribable beauty made them yet more fair, and especially Galatea. In her were seen united the three Graces whom the Greeks of old depicted naked to show (amongst other purposes) that they were mistresses of beauty. Straightway they began to gather divers flowers from the green meadow with intent to make each a garland wherewith to bind up the disordered tresses that flowed freely over their shoulders. In this task the two beauteous shepherdesses were engaged when of a sudden they saw, by the stream below, a shepherdess coming of gentle grace and bearing, whereat they wondered not a little, for it seemed to them that she was not a shepherdess of their village nor of the others near by: wherefore they looked at her with more attention and saw that she was coming gradually to where they were; and though they were quite near, she came so absorbed and lost in thought that she never saw them until they chose to show themselves. From time to time she stopped, and raising her eyes to Heaven, uttered sighs so piteous that they seemed to be torn from her innermost soul; at the same time she wrung her white hands, and tears like liquid pearls she let fall down her cheeks. From the extremes of grief the shepherdess displayed Galatea and Florisa perceived that her soul was filled with some inward grief, and to see on what her feelings were set, both hid themselves amongst some close-grown myrtles, and thence watched with curious gaze what the shepherdess was doing. She came to the brink of the stream, and with steadfast gaze stopped to watch the water running by; and letting herself fall on its bank, as one wearied, she hollowed one of her fair hands, and therein took up of the clear water, wherewith she bathed her moist eyes, saying with voice low and enfeebled:

'Ah water clear and cool, how little avails your coldness to temper the fire I feel in my soul! Vain will it be to hope from you--or indeed from all the waters the mighty ocean holds--the remedy I need; for if all were applied to the glowing passion that consumes me, you would produce the same effect as do a few drops on the glowing forge which but increase the flame the more. Ah, sad eyes, cause of my ruin! to how lofty a height did I raise you for so great a fall! Ah fortune, enemy of my repose! with what haste didst thou hurl me from the pinnacle of my joy to the abyss of misery wherein I am! Ah cruel sister! how came it that Artidoro's meek and loving presence did not appease the anger of your breast devoid of love? What words could he say to you that you should give him so harsh and cruel a reply? It seems clear, sister, that you did not esteem him as much as I; for, if it were so, you would in truth have shown as much meekness as he obedience to you.'

All that the shepherdess said she mingled with such tears, that no heart could listen to her and not be moved to compassion; and after she had calmed her sorrowing breast for a while, to the sound of the water gently flowing by, she sang with sweet and dainty voice this gloss, adapting to her purpose an ancient verse:

_Hope hath fled and will not stay One thought only brings delight: Time that passes swift of flight Soon my life will take away._

Two things, all the world among, Help the lover to attain All that doth to Love belong: E'en desire the good to gain, Hope that makes the coward strong. Both within my bosom lay. No, 'twas in my stricken soul That they lurked to take away My desire to reach the goal. _Hope hath fled and will not stay._

Though desire should cease to be, What time hope is on the wane, Yet 'tis not the same in me. My desire doth wax amain, Though my hope away doth flee. 'Gainst the wounds my soul that blight I can take nor care nor thought, Martyr to my hapless plight, In the school where Love hath taught, _One thought only brings delight_.

Scarce the blessing from on high Had unto my fancy come, When, as gently they passed by, Heaven, fate, and bitter doom, With it from my soul did fly. Whoso for my grievous plight Fain would mourn, let him strike sail, Into the haven of delight Glide more gently 'fore the gale _Than Time that passes swift of flight_.

Who that hath such woe as mine Would not faint beneath his fate? From such woes we may divine Joy to be a featherweight, Sorrow lead from deepest mine. Though my fortune be not gay, Though I falter to my knees, Yet this blessing is my stay: He who robbed me of my peace _Soon my life will take away_.

Soon the shepherdess ended her song, but not the tears which made it more sad. Moved to compassion thereby, Galatea and Florisa came out from where they lay concealed, and with loving and courteous words greeted the sad shepherdess, saying to her among other things:

'So may Heaven, fair shepherdess, show itself favourable to what you would ask of it, and so may you obtain from it what you desire, if you tell us (allowing that it be not displeasing to you), what fortune or what destiny has brought you to this region, for, according to the experience we have of it, we have never seen you on these banks. Now that we have heard what you have just sung, gathering from it that your heart has not the calm it needs, and by reason of the tears you have shed, of which your lovely eyes gave witness, in the name of fair courtesy we are bound to give you all the solace in our power; and if your evil be of those that do not permit of consolation you will at least perceive in us a good will to serve you.'

'I know not, fair maidens,' replied the strange shepherdess, 'how I shall be able to repay you save by silence for the courteous offers you make me, unless by saying no more about it, and being grateful for it, and valuing them as much as they deserve it, and by not withholding from you what you wish to learn from me, although it would be better for me to pass by in silence the circumstances of my misfortunes, than to tell them and give you cause to count me immodest.'

'Your countenance and the gentle bearing that Heaven has given you,' replied Galatea, 'do not betoken an intellect so coarse as to make you do a thing in telling which afterwards you must needs lose reputation; and since your appearance and words have in so short a time made this impression on us, that we already count you discreet, prove to us, by telling us your life, whether your misfortune comes up to your discretion.'

'As far as I believe,' replied the shepherdess, 'both are on a level, unless, indeed, fate has given me more judgment, the more to feel the griefs that present themselves; but I am quite sure that my woes exceed my discretion, in the same degree as all my craft is overcome by them, since I have none wherewith to cure them. And that experience may set you right, if you wish to hear me, fair maidens, I will tell you, in as few words as possible, how, from the great understanding you judge I possess, has sprung the woe which surpasses it.'

'With nothing will you better satisfy our desires, discreet maiden,' replied Florisa, 'than with telling us what we have asked you.'

'Let us retire, then,' said the shepherdess, 'from this spot, and seek another, where, without being seen or disturbed, I may be able to tell you what it grieves me to have promised you, for I foresee that it will not cost more to lose the good opinion I have gained with you, than to reveal my thoughts to you, however late, if perhaps yours have not been touched by the affliction I am suffering.'

Desirous that the shepherdess should fulfil her promise, straightway the three arose, and betook themselves to a secret and retired place, known already to Galatea and Florisa, where, beneath the pleasant shade of some leafy myrtles, without being seen by anybody, all three could be seated. Forthwith, with exquisite grace and charm, the strange shepherdess began to speak in this wise:

'On the banks of the famous Henares, which ever yields fresh and pleasant tribute to your golden Tagus, most beauteous shepherdesses, was I born and nurtured in a station not so lowly, that I might count myself the meanest of the village. My parents are labourers and accustomed to field-labour, in which occupation I followed them, leading a flock of simple sheep over the common pastures of our village. So well did I adapt my thoughts to the condition in which my lot had placed me, that nothing gave me more joy than to see my flock multiply and increase, and I had no other thought save how to gain for them the richest and most fertile pastures, the clearest and freshest waters I could find. I had not, nor could I have, cares beyond those that might arise from the rustic duties on which I was engaged. The woods were my companions, in whose solitude, ofttimes invited by the sweet birds' gentle harmony, I sent forth my voice in a thousand simple songs, without mingling therein sighs or words that might give any token of a love-sick breast. Ah! how often, merely to please myself and to allow the time to pass away, did I wander from bank to bank, from vale to vale, culling, here the white lily, there the purple iris, here the red rose, there the fragrant pink, making from every kind of sweet-smelling flowers a woven garland, wherewith I adorned and bound up my hair; and then, viewing myself in the clear and peaceful waters of some spring, I remained so joyous at having seen myself, that I would not have changed my happiness for any other! And how often did I make sport of some maidens, who, thinking to find in my breast some manner of pity for the misery theirs felt, disclosed to me, with abundance of tears and sighs, the love-secrets of their soul! I remember now, fair shepherdesses, that one day there came to me a girl friend of mine: throwing her arms round my neck, and joining her face to mine, she said to me with streaming eyes: "Ah, sister Teolinda!" (for this is the name of the hapless being before you). "I truly believe the end of my days has come, since love has not dealt with me as my desires deserved." Whereupon I, wondering at her display of grief, thinking that some great misfortune had befallen her, in the loss of her flock, or the death of her father or brother, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of my smock, and asked her to tell me what misfortune it was that caused her to lament so much. She, continuing her tears, nor giving truce to her sighs, said to me: "What greater misfortune, oh Teolinda, would you have happen to me, than that the son of the chief man in our village, whom I love more than the very eyes in my head, should have gone away without saying a word to me; and that I have this morning seen in possession of Leocadia, daughter of the head shepherd Lisalco, a crimson belt which I had given to that false Eugenio, whereby was confirmed the suspicion I had of the love-affair the traitor was carrying on with her?" When I ceased hearing her complaints, I swear to you, friends and ladies mine, that I could not cease from laughing within myself, and saying to her: "By my faith, Lydia," (for so the unhappy girl was called) "I thought from your complaints that you came stricken with another and a greater wound. But now I know how void of sense are you who fancy yourselves in love, in making much ado about such childish things. Tell me on your life, dear Lydia, what is the worth of a crimson belt, that it should grieve you to see it in Leocadia's possession or to find that Eugenio has given it to her? You would do better to consider your honour and what concerns the pasturage of your sheep, and not to mix yourself up with these fooleries of love, since we draw nothing from them, so far as I see, but loss of honour and of peace." When Lydia heard from me a reply so contrary to the one she hoped for from my lips and pitying disposition, she did nothing but bow her head, and adding tear to tear and sob to sob, went from me; and after a little while, turning her head, she said to me: "I pray God, Teolinda, that soon you may see yourself in a state, compared to which you would count mine happy, and that love may so treat you that you may tell your grief to one who will value it and feel it in such wise as you have done mine;" and therewith she went away, and I was left laughing at her madness. But ah! poor me! I perceive clearly at every moment that her curse is working in me, since even now I fear that I am telling my grief to one who will sorrow but little at having learnt it!'

Thereto Galatea replied: 'Would to God, discreet Teolinda, that you might find a remedy for your loss as easily as you will find in us pity for it, for you would soon lose the suspicion you cherish of our sympathy.'

'Your lovely presence, sweet shepherdesses, and pleasant converse,' replied Teolinda, 'make me hope so; but my poor fortune compels me to fear the contrary. Yet, come what may, I must now tell you what I have promised you. With the freedom I have told you, and in the pursuits I have related to you, I passed my life so joyously and peacefully that desire knew not what to bid me do, until avenging love came to exact from me a strict account for the small account in which I held him, wherein he vanquished me in such a way that though I am his slave I fancy that he is not yet paid nor satisfied. It happened then, that one day (which would have been for me the happiest of the days of my life, had not time and season brought such a decrease to my joys), I went with other shepherdesses of our village to cut branches and gather rushes and flowers and green sword-lilies to adorn the temple and streets of our native place; for the following day was a most high festival, and the inhabitants of our hamlet were bound by vow and promise to keep it. We chanced to pass all together through a delightful wood which is situated between the village and the river, where we found a group of graceful shepherds, who were spending the heat of the glowing noon-tide in the shade of the green trees. When they saw us, we were at once recognised by them, for they were all cousins or brothers or kinsmen of ours, and coming to meet us and learning from us the purpose we had in view, they persuaded and constrained us with courteous words not to go farther, for that some of them would fetch the branches and flowers for which we were going. And so, being overcome by their prayers--they were so earnest--we granted their desire, and forthwith six of the youngest, equipped with their bill-hooks, went off in great glee to bring us the green spoils we sought. We girls (there were six of us) went to where the other shepherds stood; and they received us with all courtesy, especially a strange shepherd who was there, known to none of us, who was of such noble grace and spirit that all stood wondering on seeing him, but I stood wondering and overcome. I know not what to tell you, shepherdesses, save that as soon as my eyes beheld him, I felt my heart grow tender and there began to course through all my veins a frost that set me aflame, and without knowing why, I felt my soul rejoice to have set eyes on the handsome face of the unknown shepherd; and, in a moment, though I was inexperienced in the ways of love, I recognised that it was love that had stricken me; straightway had I wished to make my plaint of him, if time and circumstances had permitted. In short I then remained as now I am, overcome and filled with love, though with more hope of recovery than I now possess. Ah! how often in that hour did I long to go to Lydia, who was with us, and say to her: "Forgive me, Lydia dear, for the discourteous reply I gave you the other day, for I would have you know that now I have more experience of the woe you complained of than you yourself!" One thing fills me with wonder, how all the maidens there failed to see from the workings of my face the secrets of my heart, and the cause of this must have been that all the shepherds turned to the stranger and begged him to finish the singing of a song he had begun before we came up. He, without waiting to be pressed, continued the song he had begun, with so exquisite and marvellous a voice that all who listened to it were transported at hearing it. Then at last I yielded myself all in all to all that love demanded, without there being left in me more desire than if I had never had any for anything in my life. And, although I was more entranced than all on hearing the shepherd's sweet melody, yet I did not fail to lend the greatest attention to what he sang in his verses; for love had already brought me to such a pass that it would have touched me to the soul, had I heard him singing a lover's themes, since I would have fancied that his thoughts were already engaged, and perchance in a quarter where mine might have no share in what they desired. But what he then sang was nothing but praises of the shepherd's lot and the peaceful life of the fields, and some useful counsels for the preservation of the flock; whereat I was not a little pleased; for it seemed to me that if the shepherd had been in love, he would have treated of naught but his love, since it is the way of lovers to think time ill-spent which is spent on aught save extolling and praising the cause of their griefs or joys. Mark, friends, in how short a space I became mistress in the school of love. The end of the shepherd's song and the first sight of those who came with the branches occurred at the same moment; and the youths, to one who saw them from afar, looked for all the world like a little hillock moving along trees and all, as they came in staid procession covered with branches. As they came near us, the six all raised their voices, and, one beginning and all replying, with tokens of the greatest joy and with many merry shouts, began a graceful chant. Amidst this joy and happiness they came nearer than I wished, for they deprived me of the happiness I felt at the sight of the shepherd. When they had laid down their green burden, we saw that each had a lovely garland entwined round his arm, composed of various charming flowers, which with graceful words they presented, one to each of us, offering to carry the branches to the village; but we, full of joy, thanked them for their fair courtesy and wished to return to the village, when Eleuco, an old shepherd who was there, said to us: "It will be well, fair shepherdesses, that you should repay us for what our youths have done for you by leaving us the garlands you are taking away over and above what you came to seek; but it must be on condition that you give them to whomsoever you think fit, with your own hands." "If you will be satisfied by so small a return from us," replied one of the maidens, "I for my part am content," and taking the garland with both hands placed it on the head of a gallant cousin of hers. The others, guided by this example, gave theirs to different youths who were there, all of them their kinsmen. I who remained to the last, and had no kinsman there, affecting a certain indifference, went up to the strange shepherd and placed the garland on his head, saying to him: "For two reasons I give you this, fair youth, one, for the pleasure you have given us all by your charming song, the other, because in our village it is our custom to honour strangers." All the bystanders were delighted with my action, but how can I tell you what my soul felt when I saw myself so near to him who had stolen it away? I can only say that I would have given any happiness I could have wished for at that moment (save that of loving him), to be able to encircle his neck with my arms as I encircled his brows with the garland. The shepherd bowed to me and with well-chosen words thanked me for the favour I did him, and as he took his leave of me, stealing the opportunity from the many eyes that were there, with low voice said to me: "I have rewarded you, fair shepherdess, better than you think, for the garland you have given me; you take a pledge with you, and if you know how to value it, you will perceive that you remain my debtor." I would gladly have answered him, but such was the haste my companions imposed on me that I had no chance of replying to him. In this wise I returned to the village with a heart so different from that wherewith I had set out that I myself marvelled at myself. Company was irksome to me, and every thought that came to me and did not tend to thinking of my shepherd, with much haste I strove forthwith to put away from my mind as unworthy to occupy the place that was full of loving cares. I know not how in so short a time I became changed into a being other than that of old; for I no longer lived in myself but in Artidoro (for such is the name of the half of my soul I go seeking). Wherever I turned my eyes, I seemed to see his face; whatever I heard, straightway his gentle music and melody sounded in my ears; nowhere did I move my feet but I had given my life, if he had desired it, to find him there; in food I did not find the wonted savour nor did my hands succeed in finding aught to give it. In a word, all my senses were changed from their former state, nor did my soul work through them as it was used to do. In the consideration of the new Teolinda who was born within me, and in the contemplation of the shepherd's grace that remained imprinted on my soul, all that day passed away from me, and the night preceding the solemn festival; and when this came, it was celebrated with the greatest rejoicing and enthusiasm by all the inhabitants of our village and of the neighbouring places. After the sacred offerings in the temple were ended and the ceremonies due performed, well-nigh most of the people of the hamlet came together in a broad square before the temple, beneath the shade of four ancient leafy poplars which were therein, and all forming a circle, left a space for the youths from near and far to disport themselves in honour of the festival in various pastoral games. Straightway on the instant a goodly number of fit and lusty shepherds showed themselves in the square, and giving joyous tokens of their youth and skill, began a thousand graceful games. Now they tossed the heavy caber, now they showed the lightness of their supple limbs in unwonted leaps, now they revealed their great strength and dexterous craft in complicated wrestling bouts, now they proved the swiftness of their feet in long races, each one striving so to acquit himself in all that he might win the first prize out of the many the chief men of the village had offered for the best who should excel in such sports; but in these I have mentioned, and in many others which I pass by so as not to be tedious, none of all the neighbours or men of the district present achieved as much as my Artidoro, who chose by his presence to honour and gladden our festival, and to carry off the highest honour and prize in all the games that were held. Such, shepherdesses, was his skill and spirit, so great the praises all gave him, that I grew proud, and an unwonted joy revelled in my breast at the mere reflection that I had known to fill my thoughts so well. But despite this it gave me very great grief that Artidoro, being a stranger, would have soon to depart from our village; and, if he went away without at least knowing what he took from me--that is, my soul--what a life would be mine in his absence, or how could I forget my sorrow, at least by lamenting, since I had no one to complain of save myself? Whilst I was occupied with these fancies, the festival and rejoicing ended; and when Artidoro would have taken leave of the shepherds, his friends, they all joined in asking him to spend with them the eight remaining days of the festival, if nothing more pleasing prevented it. "Nothing can give me greater pleasure, kind shepherds," replied Artidoro, "than to serve you in this and all else that your wish may be; for although it was my wish now to go and seek a brother of mine, who has for a few days been missing from our village, I will fulfil your desire, since it is I who gain thereby." All thanked him greatly, and were pleased at his remaining; but I was more so, thinking that in those eight days an opportunity could not fail to present itself to me, when I might reveal to him what I could no longer conceal. We spent nearly all that night in dances and games, and in telling one another the feats we had seen the shepherds perform that day, saying: "Such a one danced better than such a one, though so and so knew more turns than so and so; Mingo threw Bras, but Bras ran better than Mingo;" and finally, all came to the conclusion that Artidoro, the strange shepherd, bore off the palm from all, each one praising in detail his graces one by one; and all these praises, I have already said, redounded to my delight. When the morning of the day after the festival came, before fresh dawn lost the pearly dew from her lovely locks, and the sun had fully displayed his rays on the peaks of the neighbouring mountains, some twelve of us shepherdesses, the most admired of the village, came together, and, linking hands, to the sound of a flageolet and a bagpipe, weaving and unweaving intricate turns and dance-movements, we went from the village to a green meadow not far away, giving great pleasure to all who saw our mazy dance. And fortune, which so far was guiding my affair from good to better, ordained that in that same meadow we should find all the shepherds of the place, and Artidoro with them. When they saw us, straightway attuning the sound of a tabor they had to that of our pipes, they came forth to meet us with the same measure and dance, mingling with us in bewildering but well-ordered maze; and as the instruments changed their note, we changed the dance, so that we shepherdesses had to unlink and give our hands to the shepherds; and my good fortune willed that I should chance to give mine to Artidoro. I know not, my friends, how to describe fully to you what I felt at such a moment, unless by telling you that I was so perturbed, that I failed to keep fitting step in the dance; so much so that Artidoro was obliged to draw me violently after him, in order that the thread of the measured dance might not be broken if he let me go. Seizing the opportunity for it, I said to him: "Wherein has my hand offended you, Artidoro, that you press it so hard?" He replied in a voice that could be heard by none: "Nay, what has my soul done to you that you use it so ill?" "My offence is clear," I replied gently; "but for yours, neither do I see it, nor will it be seen." "This is just the mischief," replied Artidoro, "that you can see your way to do evil, but not to cure it." Herewith our discourse ended, for the dancing ended, and I remained happy and thoughtful at what Artidoro had said to me; and though I thought they were loving words, they did not convince me that they came from one in love. Straightway we all, shepherds and shepherdesses, sate down on the green grass; and when we had rested a while from the fatigue of the dances that were over, the aged Eleuco, attuning his instrument, which was a rebeck, to the pipe of another shepherd, asked Artidoro to sing something, for he should so rather than any other, since Heaven had bestowed such talent on him that it were ingratitude to wish to conceal it. Artidoro, thanking Eleuco for the praises he gave him, straightway began to sing some verses; and I fixed them in my memory, since the words he had spoken to me before had given me a suspicion, so that even now I have not forgotten them. Though it may be irksome to you to hear them, I shall have to repeat them to you, only because they are needful for you to understand, stage by stage, through what stages love has brought me to the pass in which I find myself. They are as follows:

Wild, close-confined and gloomy be his night, Never may he behold the longed-for day, Incessant and unending be his woe, Far, far away from bliss, and joy, and laughter, Ought he to be, wrapt in a living death, Whoso without sweet Love shall spend his life.

Full though it be of joyousness, yet life Naught save the shade can be of briefest night, The veritable counterfeit of death, If during all the hours that fill the day It doth not silence every pang of woe, And gladly, gladly welcome Love's sweet laughter.

Where liveth gentle Love, there liveth laughter, And where Love dieth, dieth too our life, Our choicest pleasure is transformed to woe, Into the darkness of eternal night Is changed the radiance of the peaceful day, Life without Love is naught but bitter death.

Dangers wherein the issue is but death The lover doth not flee: rather with laughter He seeks his chance and longeth for the day, When he may offer up his treasured life-- Until he shall behold the last calm night-- Unto Love's flame, and unto Love's sweet woe.

The woe that is of Love, we call not woe, Nor yet the death that Love bestoweth, death: Let none to Love's night give the name of night, Nor call Love's laughter by the name of laughter. His life alone can be accounted life, Our only merriment his joyous day.

Oh blest, thrice-blest to me this happy day, Whereon I can restrain my bitter woe, Rejoicing that I have bestowed my life On her who can bestow or life or death! What will it be, what can I hope save laughter From that proud face that turns the sun to night?

Love hath my cloudy night to cloudless day Transformed, to laughter my increasing woe, And my approaching death to length of life.

These were the verses, fair shepherdesses, which my Artidoro sang that day with wondrous grace and no less pleasure on the part of those that heard him. From them, and from the words he had spoken to me before, I took occasion to consider if by chance the sight of me had caused some new sensation of love in Artidoro's breast; and my suspicion did not turn out so vain, but that he himself justified it to me on our return to the village.'

Teolinda had reached this point in the tale of her love, when the shepherdesses heard a great uproar of shepherds shouting and dogs barking. This caused them to end the discourse they had begun, and to stop and observe through the branches what it was; in this way they saw a pack of hounds crossing a green plain on their right hand, in pursuit of a timid hare, that was coming with all speed to take shelter in the dense underwood. It was not long before the shepherdesses saw it coming to the same place where they were, and going straight to Galatea's side. There, overcome by the fatigue of its long course, and almost as it were safe from the peril nigh at hand, it sank down on the ground with such wearied breath, that it seemed on the point of breathing its last. The hounds pursued it by scent and track, until they came to where the shepherdesses were; but Galatea, taking the timid hare in her arms, checked the vengeful purpose of the eager hounds, for it seemed to her not to be right to fail to defend a creature that had sought her aid. Soon after there approached some shepherds, following the hounds and the hare; and amongst them came Galatea's father, out of respect for whom Florisa, Teolinda and she went out to meet him with due courtesy. He and the shepherds were filled with wonder at Teolinda's beauty, and desired to know who she was, for they saw clearly that she was a stranger. Galatea and Florisa were not a little annoyed at their approach, seeing that it had robbed them of the pleasure of learning the issue of Teolinda's love; and they asked her to be good enough not to leave their company for some days, if the accomplishment of her desires were not by chance hindered thereby.

'Nay, rather,' replied Teolinda, 'it suits me to remain a day or two on this bank, to see if they can be accomplished; and on this account, as also not to leave unfinished the story I have begun, I must do what you bid me.'

Galatea and Florisa embraced her, and offered her their friendship anew, and to serve her to the best of their power. Meanwhile Galatea's father and the other shepherds, having spread their cloaks on the margin of the clear stream, and drawn from their wallets some country fare, invited Galatea and her companions to eat with them. They accepted the invitation, and, sitting down forthwith, they sated their hunger, which was beginning to weary them as the day was already far spent. In the course of these doings, and of some stories the shepherds told to pass the time, the accustomed hour approached for returning to the village. Straightway Galatea and Florisa, returning to their flocks, collected them once more, and, in the company of fair Teolinda and the other shepherds, gradually made their way to the hamlet; and at the break of the hill where that morning they had happened on Elicio, they all heard the pipe of the unloving Lenio, a shepherd in whose breast love could never take up his abode; and thereat he lived in such joy and content, that in whatever converse or gathering of shepherds he found himself, his sole intent was to speak ill of love and lovers, and all his songs tended to this end. By reason of this strange disposition of his, he was known by all the shepherds in all those parts, and by some he was loathed, by others held in esteem. Galatea and those who came there stopped to listen, to see if Lenio was singing anything, as was his wont, and straightway they saw him give his pipe to a companion, and begin to sing what follows to its sound:

LENIO. An idle careless thought that wanders free, A foolish vaunting fancy of the mind, A something that no being hath nor kind, Nor yet foundation, nursed by memory, A grief that takes the name of jollity, An empty hope that passes on the wind, A tangled night where none the day may find, A straying of the soul that will not see.

These are the very roots wherefrom, I swear, This old chimera fabled hath its birth, Which beareth o'er the world the name of Love. The soul that thus on Love doth set its care, Deserveth to be banished from the earth, And win no shelter in the heavens above.

At the time that Lenio was singing what you have heard, Elicio and Erastro had already come up with their flocks in the company of the hapless Lisandro; and Elicio, thinking that Lenio's tongue in speaking ill of love went beyond what was right, wished clearly to show him his error, and, adopting the very theme of the verses he had sung, at the moment Galatea, Florisa, Teolinda and the other shepherds came up, to the sound of Erastro's pipe he began to sing in this wise:

ELICIO. Whosoever keepeth Love, In his breast a prisoner close, Hurl him down from heaven above, Give him not on earth repose.

Love a virtue is unending, Virtues many more attaining, Semblance after semblance gaining, To the primal cause ascending. Whosoever from such love, Shall be banished by his woes; Hurl him down from heaven above, Grant him not on earth repose.

A fair form, a lovely face, Though but mortal, doomed to fade, Are but copies, where portrayed We may see the heavenly grace. Grace on earth who doth not love, Nor to it allegiance owes, Shall be hurled from heaven above, Nor on earth shall find repose.

Love, when taken quite apart, And untainted with alloy, Filleth all the world with joy, Even as Apollo's dart, Whoso hath mistrust of Love, Love that hides its blessing close, Shall not win to heaven above, But in deepest earth repose.

For a thousand joys a debtor, Each of us to Love is seen, For 'tis Love that turns, I ween, Bad to good, and good to better. He who lets his fancies rove, E'en a hair's breadth from Love's woes, Shall not win to heaven above, Nor on earth find sure repose.

Love indeed is infinite, If but honour be its stay; But the love that dies away Is not love, but appetite. Whoso shall the veil of love Raise not, but his heart shall close, Slay him, lightning from above! Earth, permit him not repose!

The shepherds given to love felt no small pleasure at seeing how well Elicio defended his view: but the loveless Lenio did not on this account cease to remain firm in his opinion; nay, rather, he sought anew to resume his song and to show in what he sang how ineffectual Elicio's reasonings were to darken the bright truth which, following his judgment, he upheld. But Galatea's father, who was called Aurelio the venerable, said to him:

'Don't weary yourself for the present, discreet Lenio, in seeking to show us in your song what you feel in your heart, for the road from here to the village is short, and it seems to me more time is needed than you think to defend yourself against the many who hold a view contrary to yours. Keep your reasonings for a more convenient spot, for some day you and Elicio with other shepherds will be together at the spring of slates or the stream of palms, where, with greater ease and comfort, you may be able to discuss and make clear your different opinions.'

'The opinion Elicio holds is mere opinion,' replied Lenio, 'but mine is absolute knowledge, and proved, which, sooner or later, forced me to uphold it, seeing that it carried truth with it; but, as you say, there will not fail a time more fitting for this end.'

'This will I arrange,' answered Elicio, 'for it grieves me that so fine an intellect as yours, friend Lenio, should lack what might improve it and enhance it, like the pure and true love whose enemy you show yourself.'

'You are deceived, Elicio,' replied Lenio, 'if you think by specious words and sophisms to make me change principles I would not hold it manly to change.'

'It is as wrong,' said Elicio, 'to persist in wrong, as it is good to persevere in good, and I have always heard my elders say it is the part of the wise to take counsel.'

'I do not deny that,' answered Lenio, 'whenever I see that my judgment is not correct; but so long as experience and reason do not show me the contrary to what they have shown me hitherto, I believe that my opinion is as true as yours is false.'

'If the heretics of love were to be punished,' said Erastro at this point, 'I would begin from this moment, friend Lenio, to cut wood wherewith to burn you for the greatest heretic and enemy that love has.'

'And even though I saw naught of love, save that you, Erastro, follow it, and are of the band of lovers,' replied Lenio, 'that alone would suffice to make me renounce it with a hundred thousand tongues, if a hundred thousand I had.'

'Do you think then, Lenio,' answered Erastro, 'that I am not fit to be a lover?'

'Nay,' replied Lenio, 'I think that men of your disposition and understanding are fitted to be among love's servants; for he who is lame falls to the ground at the slightest stumble, and he who has little wisdom, wants but little time to lose it all; and as for those who follow the banner of this your valorous captain, I for my part hold that they are not the wisest in the world; and if they have been, they ceased to be it, the moment they fell in love.'

Great was the displeasure Erastro felt at what Lenio said, and thus he answered him:

'I think, Lenio, your insane reasonings deserve another punishment than words; but I hope that some day you will pay for what you have just said, without being aided by what you might say in your defence.'

'If I knew of you, Erastro,' answered Lenio, 'that you were as brave as you are fond, your threats would not fail to fill me with dread: but, as I know you are as backward in the one, as in the other you are to the fore, they cause laughter in me rather than terror.'

Here Erastro lost all patience, and if it had not been for Lisandro and Elicio, who placed themselves between, he had replied to Lenio with his fists; for by this time his tongue, confused with rage, could scarce perform its office. Great was the pleasure all felt at the sprightly quarrel of the shepherds, and more at the rage and displeasure Erastro displayed; for it was necessary that Galatea's father should make peace between Lenio and him, though Erastro, if it had not been for fear of losing the respect of his lady's father, would in no way have made it. As soon as the matter was ended, all with rejoicing went their way to the village, and whilst they were going, the fair Florisa, to the sound of Galatea's pipe, sang this sonnet:

FLORISA. With increase may my tender lambs be crowned Amidst the grassy mead or forest's fold: Throughout the summer's heat or winter's cold May herbage green and cooling streams abound. May I through all my days and nights be found Wrapt but in dreamings of a shepherd's life; In no wise yielding to Love's petty strife, Nor may his childish acts have power to wound.

Here one Love's countless blessings doth proclaim, Love's fruitless cares another maketh known. I cannot say if both be brought to shame, Nor yet to whom to give the victor's crown. This much I know: that many Love by name May call, yet few are chosen for his own.

Short indeed was the road to the shepherds, beguiled and entertained by the charming voice of Florisa, who ceased not her song till they were quite near the village and the huts of Elicio and Erastro, who stopped there with Lisandro, first taking leave of the venerable Aurelio, Galatea, and Florisa, who went with Teolinda to the village, the remaining shepherds going each to where he had his hut. That same night the hapless Lisandro asked leave of Elicio to return to his country or to where he might, in harmony with his desire, finish the little of life that, as he thought, remained to him. Elicio with all the arguments he could urge on him, and with the endless offers of true friendship he made him, could by no means prevail on him to remain in his company even for a few days; and so the luckless shepherd, embracing Elicio with many tears and sighs, took leave of him, promising to inform him of his condition wherever he might be. Elicio, having accompanied him half a league from his hut, again embraced him closely; and making again fresh offers, they parted, Elicio being in great grief for what Lisandro suffered. And so he returned to his hut to spend the greater part of the night in amorous fancies and to await the coming day that he might enjoy the happiness the sight of Galatea caused him. And she, when she reached her village, desiring to learn the issue of Teolinda's love, arranged so that Florisa, Teolinda and she might be alone that night; and finding the opportunity she desired, the love-sick shepherdess continued her story as will be seen in the second book.

BOOK II.

Being now free and relieved from what they had to do that night with their flocks, they arranged to retire and withdraw with Teolinda to a spot where they might, without being hindered by anyone, hear what was lacking of the issue of her love. And so they betook themselves to a little garden by Galatea's house; and, the three seating themselves beneath a stately green vine which entwined itself in an intricate manner along some wooden network, Teolinda repeated once more some words of what she had said before and went on, saying:

'After our dance and Artidoro's song were ended, as I have already told you, fair shepherdesses, it seemed good to all of us to return to the village to perform in the temple the solemn rites, and because it likewise seemed to us that the solemnity of the feast in some way gave us liberty; but not being so punctilious as to seclusion, we enjoyed ourselves with more freedom. Wherefore we all, shepherds and shepherdesses, in a confused mass, with gladness and rejoicing returned to the village, speaking each with the one who pleased him best. Fate, and my care, and Artidoro's solicitude also ordained that, without any display of artifice in the matter, we two kept apart from the rest in such a manner that on the way we might safely have said more than what we did say, if each of us had not respected what we owed to ourselves and to each other. At length I said to him, to draw him out, as the saying goes: "The days you have spent in our village, Artidoro, will be years to you, since in your own you must have things to occupy you which must give you greater pleasure." "All that I can hope for in my life," replied Artidoro, "would I exchange, if only the days I have to spend here might be, not years, but centuries, since, when they come to an end, I do not hope to pass others that may give me greater joy." "Is the joy you feel so great," I replied, "at seeing our festivals?" "It does not arise from this," he answered, "but from regarding the beauty of the shepherdesses of your village." "In truth," I retorted, "pretty girls must be wanting in yours." "The truth is that they are not wanting there," he replied, "but that here there is a superabundance, so that one single one I have seen is enough for those of yonder place to count themselves ugly compared to her." "Your courtesy makes you say this, oh Artidoro," I replied, "for I know full well that in this hamlet there is no one who excels so much as you say." "I know better that what I say is true," he answered, "since I have seen the one and beheld the others." "Perhaps you beheld her from afar, and the distance between," said I, "made you see a different thing from what it really was." "In the same way," he replied, "as I see and am beholding you now, I beheld and saw her. Happy should I be to have been mistaken, if her disposition does not agree with her beauty." "It would not grieve me to be the one you say, for the pleasure she must feel who sees herself proclaimed and accounted beautiful." "I would much rather that you were not," replied Artidoro. "Then what would you lose," I answered, "if instead of not being the one you say, I were?" "What I have gained, I know full well," he replied, "as to what I have to lose, I am doubtful and in fear." "You know well how to play the lover, Artidoro," said I. "You know better how to inspire love, Teolinda," he replied. Thereon I said to him, "I do not know if I should tell you, Artidoro, that I wish neither of us to be deceived." Whereto he replied, "I am quite sure that I am not deceived, and it is in your hands to seek to undeceive yourself as often as you seek to make trial of the pure desire I have to serve you." "I will reward you for that," I answered, "with the same desire; for it seems to me that it would not be well to remain indebted to anybody where the cost is so small." At this moment, without his having a chance to reply to me, the head-shepherd Eleuco came up, saying in a loud voice: "Ho, gay shepherds and fair shepherdesses, make them hear our approach in the village, you singing some chant, maidens, so that we can reply to you, in order that the people of the hamlet may see how much we who are on our way here, do to make our festival joyous." And because in nothing that Eleuco commanded did he fail to be obeyed, straightway the shepherds beckoned to me to begin; and so, availing myself of the opportunity, and profiting by what had passed with Artidoro, I commenced this chant:

Whosoever by much striving Would the perfect lover be _Honour needs and secrecy_.

Wouldst thou seek with heart elate Love's sweet joy to reach aright, Take as key to thy delight Honour, secrecy as gate. Who thereby would enter straight, Wise and witty though he be _Honour needs and secrecy_.

Whoso loveth human beauty, With reproach is oft confounded, If his passion be not bounded By his honour and his duty: And such noble love as booty Winneth every man, if he _Honour have and secrecy_.

Everyone this truth hath known, And it cannot be denied, That speech oft will lose the bride Whom a silent tongue hath won, And he will all conflict shun Who a lover is, if he _Honour have and secrecy_.

Chattering tongues, audacious eyes, May have brought a thousand cares, May have set a thousand snares For the soul, and so it dies. Whoso would his miseries Lessen, and from strife be free, _Honour needs and secrecy_.

'I know not, fair shepherdesses, if in singing what you have heard I succeeded; but I know very well that Artidoro knew how to profit by it, since all the time he was in our village, though he often spoke to me, it was with so much reserve, secrecy, and modesty that idle eyes and chattering tongues neither had nor saw aught to say that might be prejudicial to our honour. But in the fear I had that, when the period Artidoro had promised to spend in our village was ended, he would have to go to his own, I sought, though at the cost of my modesty, that my heart should not remain with the regret of having kept silence on what it were useless to speak afterwards, when Artidoro had gone. And so, after my eyes gave leave for his most beauteous eyes to gaze on me lovingly, our tongues were not still, nor failed to show with words what up till then the eyes had so clearly declared by sign. Finally, you must know, friends, that one day when I found myself by chance alone with Artidoro, he disclosed to me, with tokens of an ardent love and courtesy, the true and honourable love he felt for me; and though I would have wished to play the reluctant prude, yet, because I was afraid, as I have already told you, that he would go, I did not wish to disdain him nor to dismiss him, and also because it seemed to me that the lack of sympathy, inspired or felt at the beginning of a love-affair, is the reason why those who are not very experienced in their passion, abandon and leave the enterprise they have begun. Wherefore I gave him answer such as I desired to give him. We agreed in the resolve that he should repair to his village, and a few days after should by some honourable mediation send to ask me in marriage from my parents; whereat he was so happy and content that he did not cease to call the day fortunate on which his eyes beheld me. As for me, I can tell you that I would not have changed my happiness for any other that could be imagined; for I was sure that Artidoro's worth and good qualities were such that my father would be happy to receive him as a son-in-law. The happy climax you have heard, shepherdesses, was the climax of our love, for only two or three days remained before Artidoro's departure, when fortune, as one who never set bounds to her designs, ordained that a sister of mine, a little younger than I, should return to our village from another where she had been for some days, in the house of an aunt of ours who was ill. And in order that you may see, ladies, what strange and unthought-of chances happen in the world, I would have you know a fact which I think will not fail to cause in you some strange feeling of wonder: it is that this sister of mine I have told you of, who up till then had been away, resembles me so much in face, stature, grace, and spirit (if I have any), that not merely those of our hamlet, but our very parents have often mistaken us, and spoken to the one for the other, so that, not to fall into this error, they distinguished us by the differences of our dresses, which were different. In one thing only, as I believe, did Nature make us quite different, namely, in disposition, my sister's being harsher than my happiness required, since, because of her being less compassionate than sharp-witted, I shall have to weep as long as my life endures. It happened, then, that as soon as my sister came to the village desiring to resume the rustic duties that were pleasing to her, she rose next day earlier than I wished, and went off to the meadow with the very sheep I used to lead; and though I wished to follow her by reason of the happiness which followed to me from the sight of my Artidoro, for some reason or other my mother kept me at home the whole of that day, which was the last of my joys. For that night my sister, having brought back her flock, told me as in secret that she had to tell me something of great importance to me. I, who might have imagined anything rather than what she said to me, arranged that we should soon see each other alone, when with face somewhat moved, I hanging on her words, she began to say to me: "I know not, sister mine, what to think of your honour, nor yet whether I should be silent on what I cannot refrain from telling you, in order to see if you give me any excuse for the fault I imagine you are guilty of: and though, as a younger sister, I should have addressed you with more respect, you must forgive me; for in what I have seen to-day you will find the excuse for what I say to you." When I heard her speaking in this way I knew not what to answer her except to tell her to go on with her discourse. "You must know, sister," she proceeded, "that this morning when I went forth with our sheep to the meadow, and was going alone with them along the bank of our cool Henares, as I passed through the glade of counsel there came out towards me a shepherd whom I can truly swear I have never seen in our district; and with a strange freedom of manner he began to greet me so lovingly that I stood shamed and confused, not knowing what to answer him. Failing to take warning from the anger which I fancy I showed in my face, he came up to me, saying to me: 'What silence is this, fair Teolinda, last refuge of this soul that adores you?' And he was on the point of taking my hands to kiss them, adding to what I have said a whole list of endearments, which it seemed he brought ready prepared. At once I understood, seeing that he was falling into the error many others have fallen into, and thinking he was speaking with you; whence a suspicion arose in me that if you, sister, had never seen him, nor treated him with familiarity, it would not be possible for him to have the boldness to speak to you in that way. Whereat I felt so great a rage that I could scarcely form words to answer him, but at last I replied to him in the way his boldness deserved, and as it seemed to me you, sister, would have had to answer anyone speaking to you so freely; and if it had not been that the shepherdess Licea came up at that moment, I had added such words that he would truly have repented addressing his to me. And the best of it is that I never chose to tell him of the error he was in, but that he believed I was Teolinda, as if he had been speaking with you yourself. At last he went off, calling me thankless, ungrateful, one who showed little return; and from what I can judge from the expression he bore, I assure you, sister, he will not dare speak to you again though he should meet you all alone. What I want to know is who is this shepherd, and what converse has been between you, whence it comes that he dare speak to you with such freedom?" To your great discretion, discreet shepherdesses, I leave it to imagine what my soul would feel on hearing what my sister told me: but at length, dissembling as best I could, I said to her: "You have done me the greatest favour in the world, sister Leonarda," (for so was called the disturber of my peace) "in having by your harsh words rid me of the disgust and turmoil caused me by the importunities you mention of this shepherd. He is a stranger who for eight days has been in our village, whose thoughts are full of arrogance and folly, so great that wherever he sees me he treats me as you have seen, giving himself up to the belief that he has won my good-will; and though I have undeceived him, perhaps with harsher words than you said to him, nevertheless he does not cease to persist in his vain purpose. I assure you, sister, that I wish the new day were here that I might go and tell him that if he does not desist from his vain hope, he may expect the end to it which my words have always indicated to him." And it was indeed true, sweet friends, that I would have given all that might have been asked of me, if it had but been dawn, only that I might go and see my Artidoro, and undeceive him of the error he had fallen into, fearing lest through the bitter and petulant reply my sister had given him he should be disdainful and do something to prejudice our agreement. The long nights of rough December were not more irksome to the lover hoping some happiness from the coming day than was that night distasteful to me, though it was one of the short nights of summer, since I longed for the new light to go and see the light whereby my eyes saw. And so, before the stars wholly lost their brightness, being even in doubt whether it were night or day, constrained by my longing, on the pretext of going to pasture my sheep, I went forth from the village, and hurrying the flock more than usual to urge it on, reached the spot where at other times I was wont to find Artidoro, which I found deserted and without anything to give me indication of him; whereat my heart throbbed violently within me, for it almost guessed the evil which was in store for it. How often, seeing that I did not find him, did I wish to beat the air with my voice, calling out my Artidoro's beloved name, and to say, "Come, my joy, I am the true Teolinda, who longs for you and loves you more than herself!" But fear lest my words might be heard by another than him, made me keep more silent than I should have wished. And so, after I had traversed once and yet again all the bank and wood of the gentle Henares, I sat me down, wearied, at the foot of a green willow, waiting until the bright sun should with his rays spread over all the face of the earth, so that in his brightness there might not remain thicket, cave, copse, cottage, or hut where I might not go seeking my joy. But scarcely had the new light given opportunity to distinguish colours, when straightway a rough-barked poplar, which was before me, presented itself to my eyes: on it and on many others I saw some letters written, which I at once recognised to be from Artidoro's hand, set there; and rising in haste to see what they said, I saw, fair shepherdesses, that it was this:

Shepherdess, alone in thee Do I find that beauty rare Which to naught can I compare Save to thine own cruelty. Thou wert fickle, loyal I, Thus thou sowedst with open hand Promises upon the sand; Down the wind my hope did fly.

Never had I thought to know That thy sweet and joyous "yes" Would be followed--I confess-- By a sad and bitter "no." Yet I had not been undone, Had the eyes that gazed on thee Kept in sight prosperity, Not thy loveliness alone.

But the more thy mystic grace Speaks of promise and of gladness, All the more I sink in sadness, All my wits are in a maze. Ah, those eyes! they proved untrue, Though compassionate in seeming. Tell me, eyes so falsely beaming, How they sinned that gaze on you.

Is there man, cruel shepherdess, But thou couldst beguile his fancies By thy staid and modest glances, By thy voice's sweet caress? This indeed have I believed, That thou couldst have, days ago, Held me, hadst thou wished it so, Captive, vanquished, and deceived.

Lo, the letters I shall write On the rough bark of this tree-- Firmer than did faith with thee, Will they grow in time's despite. On thy lips thy faith was set, On thy promises so vain; Firmer 'gainst the wind-tossed main Is the rock the gale hath met.

Fearsome art thou, full of bane As the viper which we press Under foot--ah, shepherdess, False as fair, my charm and pain! Whatsoe'er thy cruelty Biddeth, I without delay Will perform; to disobey Thy command was ne'er in me.

I shall far in exile die That contented thou mayst live, But beware lest Love perceive How thou scorn'st my misery. In Love's dance, though Love may place Loyal heart in bondage strait, Yet it may not change its state, But must stay, to shun disgrace.

Thou in beauty dost excel Every maiden on this earth, And I thought that from thy worth Thou wert firm in love as well. Now my love the truth doth know 'Twas that Nature wished to limn In thy face an angel, Time In thy mood that changes so.

Wouldst thou know where I have gone, Where my woeful life shall end, Mark my blood, thy footsteps bend By the path my blood hath shown. And though naught with thee doth well Of our love and harmony Do not to the corse deny E'en the sad and last farewell.

Thou wilt be without remorse, Harder than the diamond stone, If thou makest not thy moan, When thou dost behold my corse. If in life thou hatedst me, Then amidst my hapless plight I shall count my death delight To be dead and wept by thee.

'What words will suffice, shepherdesses, to make you understand the extremity of grief that seized upon my heart, when I clearly understood that the verses I had read were my beloved Artidoro's? But there is no reason why I should make too much of it to you, since it did not go as far as was needed to end my life, which thenceforward I have held in such loathing, that I would not feel, nor could there come to me, a greater pleasure than to lose it. So great and of such a kind were the sighs I then gave forth, the tears I shed, the piteous cries I uttered, that none who had heard me but would have taken me for mad. In short, I remained in such a state, that, without considering what I owed to my honour, I determined to forsake my dear native land, beloved parents and cherished brothers, and to leave my simple flock to take care of itself; and, without heeding aught else save what I deemed to be necessary for my satisfaction, that very morning, embracing a thousand times the bark where my Artidoro's hand had been, I departed from that place with the intent to come to these banks where I know Artidoro has and makes his abode, to see if he has been so inconsiderate and cruel to himself, as to put into practice what he left written in his last verses: for if it were so, henceforward I promise you, my friends, that the desire and haste with which I shall follow him in death, shall be no less than the willingness with which I have loved him in life. But, woe is me! I verily believe there is no foreboding which may be to my hurt but will turn out true, for it is now nine days since I came to these cool banks, and all this while I have learnt no tidings of what I desire; and may it please God that when I learn them, it may not be the worst I forebode. Here you see, discreet maidens, the mournful issue of my life of love. I have now told you who I am and what I seek; if you have any tidings of my happiness, may fortune grant you the greatest you desire, so that you do not withhold it from me.'

With such tears did the loving shepherdess accompany the words she uttered, that he would have had a heart of steel who had not grieved at them. Galatea and Florisa, who were naturally of a pitying disposition, could not hold theirs back, nor yet did they fail to comfort her with the most soothing and helpful words in their power, counselling her to remain some days in their company; that perhaps her fortune would in the meantime cause her to learn some tidings of Artidoro, since Heaven would not allow a shepherd so discreet as she depicted him by reason of so strange an error to end the course of his youthful years; that it might be that Artidoro, his thought having in course of time returned to better course and purpose, might return to see the native land he longed for and his sweet friends; and that she might, therefore, hope to find him there better than elsewhere. The shepherdess, somewhat consoled by these and other reasonings, was pleased to remain with them, thanking them for the favour they did her, and for the desire they showed to secure her happiness. At this moment the serene night, urging on her starry car through the sky, gave token that the new day was approaching; and the shepherdesses, in desire and need of rest, arose and repaired from the cool garden to their dwellings. But scarce had the bright sun with his warm rays scattered and consumed the dense mist, which on cool mornings is wont to spread through the air, when the three shepherdesses, leaving their lazy couches, returned to the wonted pursuit of grazing their flock, Galatea and Florisa with thoughts far different from that cherished by the fair Teolinda, who went her way so sad and thoughtful that it was a marvel. And for this reason, Galatea, to see if she might in some way distract her, begged her to lay aside her melancholy for a while, and be so good as to sing some verses to the sound of Florisa's pipe. To this Teolinda replied:

'If I thought that the great cause I have for weeping, despite the slight cause I have for singing, would be diminished in any way, you might well forgive me, fair Galatea, for not doing what you bid me; but as I already know by experience that what my tongue utters in song, my heart confirms with weeping, I will do what you wish, since thereby I shall satisfy your desire without going contrary to mine.'

And straightway the shepherdess Florisa played her pipe, to the sound of which Teolinda sang this sonnet:

TEOLINDA. Whither a flagrant cruel lie doth go, This have I learned from my grievous state, And how Love with my hurt doth meditate The life that fear denies me, to bestow. To dwell within my flesh my soul doth cease, Following his soul that by some mystic fate In pain hath placed it, and in woe so great That happiness brings strife, and sorrow peace. If I do live, 'tis hope that makes me live, Hope, that, though slight and weak, doth upward mount, Clinging unto the strength my love doth give. Ah firm beginning, transformation frail, Bitterest total of a sweet account! Amidst your persecutions life must fail.

Teolinda had scarcely ceased singing the sonnet you have heard, when, on their right hand, on the slope of the cool vale, the three shepherdesses became aware of the sound of a pipe, whose sweetness was such that all halted and stood still, to enjoy the sweet harmony with more attention. And anon they heard the sound of a small rebeck, attuning itself to that of the pipe with grace and skill so great that the two shepherdesses Galatea and Florisa stood rapt, wondering what shepherds they might be who played with such harmony; for they clearly saw that none of those they knew was so skilled in music, unless it were Elicio.

'At this moment,' said Teolinda, 'if my ears deceive me not, fair shepherdesses, I think you now have on your banks the two renowned and famous shepherds Thyrsis and Damon, natives of my country--at least Thyrsis is, who was born in famous Compluto, a town founded on our Henares' banks; and Damon, his intimate and perfect friend, if I am not ill informed, draws his origin from the mountains of León, and was nurtured in Mantua Carpentanea, the renowned. Both are so excellent in every manner of discretion, learning and praiseworthy pursuits, that not only are they known within the boundaries of our district, but they are known and esteemed throughout all the boundaries of the land; and think not, shepherdesses, that the genius of these two shepherds extends merely to knowing what befits the shepherd's lot, for it passes so far beyond that they teach and dispute of the hidden things of Heaven and the unknown things of earth, in terms and modes agreed upon. And I am perplexed to think what cause will have moved them to leave, Thyrsis his sweet and beloved Phyllis, Damon his fair and modest Amaryllis; Phyllis by Thyrsis, Amaryllis by Damon so beloved, that there is in our village or its environs no person, nor in the district a wood, meadow, spring or stream, that does not know full well their warm and modest love.'

'Cease at present, Teolinda,' said Florisa, 'to praise these shepherds to us, for it profits us more to hear what they sing as they come, since it seems to me that they have no less charm in their voices than in the music of their instruments.'

'What will you say,' Teolinda then replied, 'when you see all this surpassed by the excellence of their poetry, which is of such a kind that for the one it has already gained the epithet of divine, and for the other that of superhuman?'

The shepherdesses, whilst engaged in this discourse, saw, on the slope of the vale along which they themselves were going, two shepherds appear, of gallant bearing and abounding spirit, one a little older than the other; so well dressed, though in shepherd's garb, that in their carriage and appearance they seemed more like brave courtiers than mountain herdsmen. Each wore a well-cut garment of finest white wool, trimmed with tawny red and grey, colours which their shepherdesses fancied most. Each had hanging from his shoulder a wallet no less handsome and adorned than the garments. They came crowned with green laurel and cool ivy, with their twisted crooks placed under their arms. They brought no companion, and came so rapt in their music that they were for a long while without seeing the fixed shepherdesses, who were wending their way along the same slope, wondering not a little at the gentle grace and charm of the shepherds, who, with voices attuned to the same chant, one beginning and the other replying, sang this which follows:

DAMON. THYRSIS.

DAMON. Thyrsis, who dost in loneliness depart With steps emboldened, though against thy will, From yonder light wherewith remains thine heart, Why dost thou not the air with mourning fill? So great indeed thy cause is to complain Of the fierce troubler of thy life so still.

THYRSIS. Damon, once let the life be rent in twain, If the grief-stricken body go away, And yet the higher half behind remain, What virtue or what being will essay My tongue to move, already counted dead? For where my soul was, there my life doth stay. I see, I hear, I feel, 'tis truth indeed, And yet I am a phantom formed by love, My only stay is hope that hath not fled.

DAMON. Oh, happy Thyrsis, how thy lot doth move My soul to envy! rightly, for I know That it doth rise all lovers' lots above. Absence alone displeaseth thee, and so Firm and secure thou hast in Love a stay Wherewith thy soul rejoiceth 'midst its woe. Alas! where'er I go I fall a prey Beneath the chilly scornful hand of fear, Or with its cruel lance disdain doth slay! Count life as death; although it doth appear Living to thee, 'tis like a lamp that dies And as it dies, the flame burneth more clear. My wearied soul doth not in time that flies, Nor in the means that absence offers, find Its consolation 'midst its miseries.

THYRSIS. Love that is firm and pure hath ne'er declined Through bitter absence; rather memory Fosters its growth by faith within the mind. The perfect lover sees no remedy Relief unto the loving load to give, However short or long the absence be. For memory, which only doth perceive What Love hath set within the soul, doth show The lovèd image to the mind alive. And then in soothing silence makes him know His fortune, good or ill, as from her eye A loving or a loveless glance doth go. And if thou markest that I do not sigh, 'Tis that my Phyllis doth my singing guide, Here in my breast my Phyllis I descry.

DAMON. If in her lovely face thou hadst espied Signs of displeasure when thou didst depart Far from the joy that thee hath satisfied, Full well I know, my Thyrsis, that thine heart Would be as full as mine of bitter woe-- Love's bliss was thine, but mine Love's cruel smart--

THYRSIS. With words like these I pass the time, and so, Damon, I temper absence's extreme, And gladly do remain, or come, or go. For she who was from birth a living theme, Type of the deathless beauty in the skies, Worthy of marble, temple, diadem, Even my Phyllis, blinds th' covetous eyes, With her rare virtue and her modest zeal, So that I fear not; none will wrest the prize. The strait subjection that my soul doth feel Before hers, and the purpose raised on high, That in her worship doth its goal reveal, And more, the fact that Phyllis knows that I Love her, and doth return my love--all these Banish my grief and bring felicity.

DAMON. Blest Thyrsis, Thyrsis crowned with happiness! Mayst thou enjoy for ages yet to come Thy bliss 'midst Love's delight and certain peace. But I, whom brief and unrelenting doom To such a doubtful pass as this hath led, In merit poor, in cares rich, near the tomb. 'Tis good that I should die, since, being dead, Nor cruel Amaryllis shall I fear Nor Love ungrateful whereby I am sped. Oh, fairer than the heavens, or sun's bright sphere, Yet harder far than adamant to me, Ready to hurt, but slow to bring me cheer, What wind from south or north or east on thee Harshness did blow, that thou didst thus ordain, That from thy presence I should ever flee? I, shepherdess, in lands across the main Far off shall die--thy will thou hast avowed-- Doomed unto death, to fetter, yoke and chain.

THYRSIS. Since Heaven in its mercy hath endowed Thee, Damon, with such blessings, dearest friend, With intellect so sprightly and so proud, Yet it with thy lament and sorrow blend, Remember that the sun's all-scorching ray And ice's chill at last shall have an end. Destiny does not always choose one way Whereby with smooth, reposeful steps to bring Happiness to us--mark the words I say-- For sometimes by unthought-of suffering, In seeming far from pleasure and from joy, It leads us to the blisses poets sing. But come, good friend, thy memory employ Upon the modest joys that Love once gave, Pledges of victory without alloy. And, if thou canst, a pastime seek, to save Thy soul from brooding, whilst the time of scorn Goes by, and we attain the boon we crave. Unto the ice that by degrees doth burn, Unto the fire that chills beyond degree, What bard shall place degree thereto, or bourne? Vainly he wearies, vainly watcheth he Who, out of favour, yet Love's web doth seek To cut according to his fantasy; He is, though strong in Love, in fortune weak.

Here ceased the exquisite song of the graceful shepherds, but not as regards the pleasure the shepherdesses had felt at listening to it; rather they would have wished it not to end so soon, for it was one of those lays that are but rarely heard. At this moment the two gallant shepherds bent their steps in the direction where the shepherdesses were, whereat Teolinda was grieved, for she feared to be recognised by them; and for this reason she asked Galatea that they might go away from that place. She did it, and the shepherds passed by, and as they passed Galatea heard Thyrsis saying to Damon:

'These banks, friend Damon, are those on which the fair Galatea grazes her flocks, and to which the loving Elicio brings his, your intimate and special friend, to whom may fortune give such issue in his love as his honourable and good desires deserve. For many days I have not known to what straits his lot has brought him; but from what I have heard tell of the coy disposition of discreet Galatea, for whom he is dying, I fear he must be full of woe long before he is content.'

'I would not be astonished at this,' replied Damon, 'for with all the graces and special gifts wherewith Heaven has enriched Galatea, it has after all made her a woman, in which frail object is not always the gratitude that is due, and which he needs whose smallest risk for them is life. What I have heard tell of Elicio's love is that he adores Galatea without passing beyond the bounds that are due to her modesty, and that Galatea's discretion is so great that she does not give proofs of loving or of loathing Elicio; and so the hapless swain must go on subject to a thousand contrary chances, waiting on time and fortune (means hopeless enough) to shorten or lengthen his life, but which are more likely to shorten it than to sustain it.'

So far Galatea could hear what the shepherds, as they went along, said of her and of Elicio, whereat she felt no small pleasure, understanding that what report published of her affairs was what was due to her pure intent; and from that moment she determined not to do for Elicio anything that might give report a chance of speaking false in what it published of her thoughts. At this moment the two brave shepherds were gradually wending their way with loitering steps towards the village, desiring to be present at the nuptials of the happy shepherd Daranio, who was marrying Silveria of the green eyes, and this was one of the reasons why they had left their flocks, and were coming to Galatea's hamlet. But, when but little of the way remained to be covered, they heard on its right side the sound of a rebeck which sounded harmoniously and sweetly; and Damon stopping caught Thyrsis by the arm, and said to him:

'Stay, listen a while, Thyrsis, for if my ears do not deceive me, the sound that reaches them is that from the rebeck of my good friend Elicio, on whom Nature bestowed so much charm in many different arts, as you will hear if you listen to him, and learn if you speak with him.'

'Think not, Damon,' replied Thyrsis, 'that I have yet to learn Elicio's good qualities, for days ago fame clearly revealed them to me. But be silent now, and let us listen to see if he sings aught that may give us some sure token of his present fortune.'

'You say well,' answered Damon, 'but it will be necessary, the better to hear him, for us to go in among these branches so that we may listen to him more closely without being seen by him.'

They did so, and placed themselves in so good a position that no word that Elicio said or sang, failed to be heard by them and even noted. Elicio was in the company of his friend Erastro, from whom he was rarely separated by reason of the pleasure and enjoyment he received from his excellent converse, and all or most of the day was spent by them in singing and playing their instruments, and at this moment, Elicio playing his rebeck and Erastro his pipe, the former began these verses:

ELICIO. I yield unto the thought within my breast And in my grief find rest; Glory no more in view, I follow her whom fancy doth pursue, For her I ever in my fancy see, From all the bonds of Love exempt and free.

Unto the soul's eye Heaven grants not the grace To see the peaceful face Of her who is my foe, Glory and pride of all that Heaven can show; When I behold her with my body's eye, The sun have I beheld, and blind am I.

Oh bitter bonds of Love, though fraught with pleasure! Oh, mighty beyond measure, Love's hand! that thus couldst steal The bliss which thou didst promise to reveal Unto mine eyes, when, in my freedom's hour, I mocked at thee, thy bow and quiver's power.

What loveliness! what hands as white as snow, Thou tyrant, didst thou show! How wearied wert thou grown, When first the noose upon my neck was thrown! And even thou hadst fallen in the fray Were Galatea not alive to-day.

She, she alone, on earth alone was found To deal the cruel wound Within the heart of me. And make a vassal of the fancy free, That would as steel or marble be displayed, Did it not yield itself to love the maid.

What charter can protect, what monarch's grace Against the cruel face, More beauteous than the sun, Of her who hath my happiness undone? Ah face, that dost reveal On earth the bliss that Heaven doth conceal!

How comes it then that nature could unite Such rigour and despite With so much loveliness, Such worth and yet a mood so pitiless? Such opposites to join My happiness consents--the hurt is mine.

Easy it is that my brief lot should see Sweet life in unity With bitter death, and find Its evil nestling where its good reclined. Amidst these different ways I see that hope, but not desire decays.

The loving shepherd sang no more, nor did Thyrsis and Damon wish to stay longer, but showing themselves unexpectedly and with spirit, came to where Elicio was. When he saw them he recognised his friend Damon, and going forward with incredible joy to welcome him, said to him:

'What fortune, discreet Damon, has ordained that by your presence you should bestow so fair a fortune on these banks which have long wished for you?'

'It cannot be but fair,' answered Damon, 'since it has brought me to see you, oh Elicio, a thing on which I set a value as great as is the desire I had for it, and as long absence and the friendship I cherish for you forced me to do. But if you can for any reason say what you have said, it is because you have before you the famous Thyrsis, glory and honour of the Castilian soil.'

When Elicio heard him say that this was Thyrsis, to him only known by fame, he welcomed him with great courtesy, and said to him:

'Your pleasing countenance, renowned Thyrsis, agrees well with what loud fame in lands near and far proclaims of your worth and discretion: and so, seeing that your writings have filled me with wonder and led me to desire to know you and serve you, you can henceforward count and treat me as a true friend.'

'What I gain thereby,' replied Thyrsis, 'is so well known that in vain would fame proclaim what the affection you bear me makes you say that it proclaims of me, if I did not recognise the favour you do me in seeking to place me in the number of your friends; and since between those who are friends words of compliment must be superfluous, let ours cease at this point, and let deeds give witness of our good-will.'

'Mine will ever be to serve you,' replied Elicio, 'as you will see, oh Thyrsis, if time or fortune place me in a position in any way suitable for it; for that I now occupy, though I would not change it for another offering greater advantages, is such that it scarcely leaves me free to proffer what I desire.'

'Since you set your desire on so lofty a goal as you do,' said Damon, 'I would hold it madness to endeavour to lower it to an object that might be less; and so, friend Elicio, do not speak ill of the condition in which you find yourself, for I assure you that if it were compared with mine, I would find occasion to feel towards you more envy than pity.'

'It is quite clear, Damon,' said Elicio, 'that you have been away from these banks for many a day, since you do not know what love makes me feel here, and if it is not so, you cannot know or have experience of Galatea's disposition, for if you had noted it, you would change into pity the envy you might feel for me.'

'What new thing can he expect from Galatea's disposition,' replied Damon, 'who has experienced that of Amaryllis?'

'If your stay on these banks,' answered Elicio, 'be as long as I wish, you, Damon, will learn and see on them, and on others will hear, how her cruelty and gentleness go in equal balance, extremes which end the life of him whose misfortune has brought him to the pass of adoring her.'

'On our Henares's banks,' said Thyrsis at this point, 'Galatea had more fame for beauty than for cruelty; but above all, it is said that she is discreet; and if this be true, as it ought to be, from her discretion springs self-knowledge, and from self-knowledge self-esteem, and from self-esteem desire not to stray, and from desire not to stray comes desire not to gratify herself. And you, Elicio, seeing how ill she responds to your wishes, give the name of cruelty to that which you should have called honourable reticence; and I do not wonder, for it is, after all, the condition proper to lovers who find small favour.'

'You would be right in what you have said, oh Thyrsis,' replied Elicio, 'if my desires were to wander from the path befitting her honour and modesty; but if they are so measured, as is due to her worth and reputation, what avails such disdain, such bitter and peevish replies, such open withdrawal of the face from him who has set all his glory on merely seeing it? Ah, Thyrsis, Thyrsis, how love must have placed you on the summit of its joys, since with so calm a spirit you speak of its effects! I do not know that what you say now goes well with what you once said when you sang:

"Alas, from what a wealth of hope I come Unto a poor and faltering desire"--

with the rest you added to it.'

Up to this point Erastro had been silent, watching what was passing between the shepherds, wondering to see their gentle grace and bearing, with the proofs each one gave of the great discretion he had. But seeing that from step to step they had been brought to reasoning on affairs of love, as one who was so experienced in them, he broke silence, and said:

'I quite believe, discreet shepherds, that long experience will have shown you that one cannot reduce to a fixed term the disposition of loving hearts, which, being governed by another's will, are exposed to a thousand contrary accidents. And so, renowned Thyrsis, you have no reason to wonder at what Elicio has said, and he as little to wonder at what you say, or take for an example what he says you sang, still less what I know you sang when you said:

"The pallor and the weakness I display,"

wherein you clearly showed the woeful plight in which you then were; for a little later there came to our huts the news of your bliss celebrated in those verses of yours, which are so famous. They began, if I remember rightly:

"The dawn comes up, and from her fertile hand."

Whence we clearly see the difference there is between one moment and another, and how love like them is wont to change condition, making him laugh to-day who wept yesterday, and him weep to-morrow who laughs to-day. And since I have known her disposition so well, Galatea's harshness and haughty disdain cannot succeed in destroying my hopes, though I hope from her nothing save that she should be content that I should love her.'

'He who should not hope a fair issue to so loving and measured a desire as you have shown, oh shepherd,' replied Damon, 'deserved renown beyond that of a despairing lover; truly it is a great thing you seek of Galatea! But tell me, shepherd--so may she grant it you--can it be that you have your desire so well in bounds that it does not advance in desire beyond what you have said.'

'You may well believe him, friend Damon,' said Elicio, 'since Galatea's worth gives no opportunity for aught else to be desired or hoped of her, and even this is so difficult to obtain that at times in Erastro hope is chilled, and in me grows cold, so that he counts as certain, and I as sure, that sooner must death come than hope's fulfilment. But as it is not right to welcome such honoured guests with the bitter tales of our miseries, let them now cease, and let us betake ourselves to the village, where you may rest from the heavy toil of the road, and may with greater ease, if so you wish, learn our uneasiness.'

All were pleased to fall in with Elicio's wish, and he and Erastro, collecting their flocks once more, though it was some hours before the wonted time, in company with the two shepherds, speaking on different matters, though all concerned with love, journeyed towards the village. But, as all Erastro's pastime was in playing and singing, so for this reason, as also from the desire he had to learn if the two new shepherds were as skilful as was said of them, in order to induce them and invite them to do the same, he asked Elicio to play his rebeck, to the sound of which he began to sing as follows:

ERASTRO. Before the light of yonder peaceful eyes, Whereby the sun is lit the earth to light, My soul is so inflamed, that, in despite, I fear that death will soon secure the prize. Yon clustered rays descending from the skies, Sent by the Lord of Delos, are thus bright: Such are the tresses of my heart's delight, Whom, kneeling, I adore with litanies. Oh radiant light, ray of the radiant sun, Nay sun in very truth, to thee I pray, That thou wouldst let me love,--this boon alone. If jealous Heaven this boon to me deny, Let me not die of grief though grief doth slay, But grant, oh rays, that of a ray I die.

The shepherds did not think ill of the sonnet, nor were they displeased with Erastro's voice, which, though not one of the most exquisite, was yet a tuneful one; and straightway Elicio, moved by Erastro's example, bade him play his pipe, to the sound of which he repeated this sonnet:

ELICIO. Alas! that to the lofty purpose, born Within the fastness of my loving mind, All are opposed, to wit, Heaven, fire and wind, Water and earth, and she that doth me scorn! They are my foes; 'twere better I should mourn My rashness, and the enterprise begun Abandon. But the impulse who can shun Of ruthless fate, by Love's persistence torn? Though Heaven on high, though Love, though wind and fire, Water and earth, and even my fair foe, Each one, with might, and with my fate allied, Should stay my bliss and scatter my desire, My hope undoing,--yet, though hope should go, I cannot cease to do what I have tried.

As Elicio finished, straightway Damon, to the sound of the same pipe of Erastro, began to sing in this wise:

DAMON. Softer than wax was I, when on my breast I did imprint the image of the face Of Amaryllis, cruel 'midst her grace, Like to hard marble, or to savage beast. 'Twas then Love set me in the loftiest Sphere of his bliss, and bade sweet fortune come; But now I fear that in the silent tomb Alone shall my presumption find its rest. Of hope did Love, as vine of elm, take hold Securely, and was climbing up with speed, When moisture failed, and its ascent was stayed. 'Twas not the moisture of mine eyes: of old Their tribute ever--Fortune this doth heed-- Unto face, breast and earth, mine eyes have paid.

Damon ceased, and Thyrsis, to the sound of the instruments of the three shepherds, began to sing this sonnet:

THYRSIS. My faith broke through the net that death had spread; To this pass have I come that I no more Envy the highest and the richest store Of happiness that man hath merited. I saw thee, and this bliss was straightway born, Fair Phyllis, unto whom fate gave for dower To turn to good that which was bad before, And win to laughter him who once did mourn. E'en as the felon, when he doth espy The royal face, the rigour of the law Escapes--this ordinance is true indeed-- E'en so doth death before thy presence fly, Oh fairest of the fair, harm doth withdraw, And leaveth life and fortune in its stead.

As Thyrsis finished, all the instruments of the shepherds made such pleasing music that it gave great joy to any who heard it, being further aided from among the dense branches by a thousand kinds of painted birds, which seemed as in chorus to give them back reply with divine harmony. In this way they had gone on a stretch, when they came to an ancient hermitage standing on the slope of a hillock, not so far from the road but that they could hear the sound of a harp which some one, it seemed, was playing within. Erastro, hearing this, said:

'Stop, shepherds, for, as I think, we shall hear to-day what I have wished to hear for days, namely, the voice of a graceful youth, who, some twelve or fourteen days ago, came to spend within yon hermitage a life harder than it seems to me his few years can bear. Sometimes when I have passed this way, I have heard a harp being played and a voice sounding, so sweet that it has filled me with the keenest desire to listen to it; but I have always come at the moment he stayed his song; and though by speaking to him I have managed to become his friend, offering to his service all within my means and power, I have never been able to prevail with him to disclose to me who he is, and the causes which have moved him to come so young and settle in such solitude and retirement.'

What Erastro said about the young hermit, newly come there, filled the shepherds with the same desire of knowing him as he had; and so they agreed to approach the hermitage in such a way that without being perceived they might be able to hear what he sang, before they came to speak to him, and on doing this, they succeeded so well that they placed themselves in a spot where, without being seen or perceived, they heard him who was within uttering to the sound of his harp, verses such as these:

If Heaven, Love and Fortune have been pleased-- The fault was not mine own-- To set me thus in such a parlous state, Vainly unto the air I make my moan, Vainly on high was raised Unto the moon the thought that seemed so great. Oh cruel, cruel, fate! By what mysterious and unwonted ways Have my sweet joyous days Been checked at such a pass in their career That I am dying and e'en life do fear!

Enraged against myself I burn and glow To see that I can bear Such pains, and yet my heart breaks not; the wind Receiveth not my soul, though vital air Amidst my bitter woe At last withdraws, and leaveth naught behind. And there anew I find That hope doth lend its aid to give me strength, And, though but feigned, doth strengthen life at length, 'Tis not Heaven's pity, for it doth ordain That to long life be given longer pain.

The hapless bosom of a lovèd friend In turn made tender mine, At once I undertook the dread emprize. Oh sweet and bitter plight none can divine! Oh deed that ne'er shall end! Oh strategy that madness did devise! To win for him the prize How bounteous and how kind Love did appear, To me how full of fear And loyalty, and yet how covetous! To more than this a friend constraineth us.

An unjust guerdon for a wish as just At every step we see By a distrustful fortune's hand bestowed, And, traitorous Love, by thine; we know of thee That 'tis thy joy and trust That lovers e'en in life should bear death's load. The living flame that glowed-- Oh may it kindle in thy pinions light And may, in thy despite, To ashes sink each good and evil dart, Or turn, when thou dost loose it, 'gainst thine heart.

How comes it then, by what deceit or wile, By what strange wanderings, Didst thou possession take of me by storm? How 'midst my longings after higher things Within the heart, from guile Yet free, didst thou my healthy will transform, False traitor to my harm? Who is so wise as patiently to see How that I entered, free And safe, to sing thy glories and thy pains, And now upon my neck do feel thy chains?

'Twere right that I should of myself complain, Nor to thee give the blame, That 'gainst thy fire I did not strive to fight. I yielded, and the wind, amidst my shame, That slept, I roused amain Even the wind of chance with furious might. A just decree and right Hath Heaven pronounced against me that I die; This only fear have I, Amidst my luckless fate and hapless doom, Misfortune will not end e'en in the tomb.

Thou, sweetest friend, and thou, my sweetest foe, Timbrio, Nisida fair, Happy and hapless both? What unjust power Of ruthless fate, what unrelenting star, Enemy of my woe, Hard and unkind, hath in this evil hour Parted us evermore? Oh wretched and unstable lot of man! How soon to sudden pain Is changed our joy, that swiftly flies away, And cloudy night doth follow cloudless day!

What man will put his trust with might and main In the instability And in the change, pervading human things? On hasty pinions time away doth flee And draweth in its train The hope of him who weeps, and him who sings. Whenever Heaven brings Its favour, 'tis to him, in holy love Raising to Heaven above The soul dissolved in heavenly passion's fire, To him that doth nor loss nor gain desire.

Here, gracious Lord, with all my power I raise To holy Heaven on high My hands, my eyes, my thoughts, in prayer always; My soul doth hope thereby To see its ceaseless mourning turned to praise.

With a deep sigh, the secluded youth, who was within the hermitage, ended his mournful song, and the shepherds, perceiving that he was not going on, without more delay, went in all together, and saw there, at one end, sitting on a hard stone, a comely and graceful youth, apparently two and twenty years of age, clad in a rough kersey, his feet unshod and his body girt with a coarse rope, which served him as belt. His head was drooping on one side, one hand clutched the portion of the tunic over his heart, the other arm fell limply on the other side. As they saw him in this plight, and as he had made no movement on the entry of the shepherds, they clearly recognised that he had fainted, as was the truth, for his deep brooding over his sorrows often brought him to such a pass. Erastro went up to him, and seizing him roughly by the arm, made him come to himself, though so dazed that he seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep; which tokens of grief caused no small grief in those who witnessed it, and straightway Erastro said to him:

'What is it, sir, that your troubled breast feels? Do not fail to tell it, for you have before you those who will not refuse any trouble to give relief to yours.'

'These are not the first offers you have made me,' replied the young man with voice somewhat faint, 'nor yet would they be the last I would try to make use of, if I could; but fortune has brought me to such a pass, that neither can they avail me, nor can I do justice to them more than in will. This you can take in return for the good you offer me; and if you wish to learn aught else concerning me, time, which conceals nothing, will tell you more than I could wish.'

'If you leave it to time to satisfy me in what you tell me,' replied Erastro, 'to such payment small gratitude is due, since time, in our despite, brings into the market-place the deepest secret of our hearts.'

Thereupon the rest of the shepherds all asked him to tell them the cause of his sorrow, especially Thyrsis, who, with powerful arguments, persuaded him and gave him to understand, that there is no evil in this life but brings with it its cure, unless death, that interrupts man's course, opposes it. Thereto he added other words, which moved the obstinate boy with his to satisfy them all on what they wished to learn from him: and so he said to them:

'Though for me it were better, my pleasant friends, to live the little that remains to me of life without friendship, and to retire to a greater solitude than that in which I am, yet, not to show myself irresponsive to the good-will you have shown me, I decide to tell you all that I think will be sufficient, and the passes through which fickle fortune has brought me to the strait in which I am. But as it seems to me that it is now somewhat late, and that, as my misfortunes are many, it might be possible for night to come on before I have told you them, it will be well for us all to go to the village together, since it causes me no further inconvenience to make the journey to-night I had determined on to-morrow, which is compulsory for me, since from your village I am provided with what I need for my sustenance; and on the way, as best we can, I will inform you of my adversities.'

All approved of what the young hermit said, and setting him in their midst, they turned with loitering steps to follow the road to the village; and straightway the sorrowing hermit, with tokens of great grief, began in this wise the tale of his woes:

'In the ancient and famous city of Xeres, whose inhabitants are favoured of Minerva and Mars, was born Timbrio, a valiant knight, and if I had to relate his virtues and nobility of soul, I would set myself a difficult task. It is enough to know that, whether by his great goodness, or by the power of the stars which drew me to it, I sought in every possible way to be his particular friend; and in this Heaven was so kind to me, that those who knew us, almost forgetting the name of Timbrio and that of Silerio (which is mine) merely called us the two friends, and we, by our constant converse and friendly deeds caused this to be no idle opinion. In this wise we two passed our youthful years in incredible joy and happiness, engaging ourselves now in the field in the pastime of the chase, now in the city in that of honourable Mars, until, one day (of the many unlucky days that hostile time has made me see in the course of my life), there happened to my friend Timbrio a weighty quarrel with a powerful knight, an inhabitant of the same city. The dispute came to such a pass that the knight remained wounded in his honour and Timbrio was obliged to absent himself, to give an opportunity for the furious discord to cease, which was beginning to kindle between the two families. He left a letter written to his enemy, informing him that he would find him in Italy, in the city of Milan or in Naples, whenever, as a knight, he should wish to have satisfaction for the insult done him. With this the factions between the kinsmen of both ceased: and it was ordained that the offended knight, who was called Pransiles, should challenge Timbrio to equal and mortal combat, and that, on finding a safe field for the combat, he should inform Timbrio. My luckless fate further ordained that, at the time this happened, I should find myself so failing in health, that I scarce could rise from my bed. And from this chance, I lost that of following my friend wherever he might be going, who, on parting, took his leave of me with no small discontent, charging me, on recovering strength, to seek him, for that I would find him in the city of Naples; and he left me with greater pain than I can now express to you. But at the end of a few days (the desire I had to see him prevailing on me more than the weakness that wearied me), I set myself straightway on the journey; and, in order that I might accomplish it with more speed and safety, fortune offered me the convenience of four galleys, which were lying ready equipped off the famous isle of Cádiz for departure to Italy. I embarked on one of them, and with a prosperous wind we soon discovered the Catalán shores; and when we had cast anchor in a harbour there, I, being somewhat weary of the sea, first making sure that the galleys were not leaving there that night, disembarked with only a friend and a servant of mine. I do not think it could have been midnight, when the sailors and those that had the galleys in charge, seeing that the serenity of the sky betokened a calm, or a prosperous wind, so as not to lose the good opportunity offered to them, at the second watch made the signal for departure; and weighing anchor, with much speed they set their oars to the smooth sea, and their sails to the gentle wind, and it was done as I say with such haste, that for all the haste I made to return to embark, I was not in time. And so I had to remain on the shore with the annoyance he can imagine, who has passed through ordinary occurrences of the kind, for I was badly supplied with everything that was necessary to continue my journey by land. But, reflecting that little remedy was to be hoped from remaining there, I determined to return to Barcelona, where, as being a larger city, it might be possible to find someone to supply me with what I needed, writing to Xeres or Seville as regards the payment. The morning broke on me, whilst engaged in these thoughts, and, determined to put them into practice, I waited till the day should be more advanced; and when on the point of departing, I perceived a great sound on land, and all the people running to the principal street of the place. And when I asked some one what it was, he replied to me: "Go, sir, to that corner, where you will learn what you want from the voice of the crier." I did so, and the first object on which I set eyes was a lofty crucifix, and a great mob of people, signs that some one condemned to death was coming among them; and all this was proved to me by the voice of the crier, declaring that justice ordered a man to be hanged for having been a robber and a highwayman. When the man came to me, I straightway recognised that he was my good friend Timbrio, coming on foot with fetters on his hands, and a rope round his throat, his eyes riveted on the crucifix he carried before him. He was speaking and protesting to the priests who were going with him, that, by the account he thought, within a few short hours, to render to the true God, whose image he had before his eyes, he had never, in all the course of his life, committed aught for which he deserved to suffer publicly so shameful a death; and he asked all to ask the judges to give him some term, to prove how innocent he was of that which they accused him of. Let it here be imagined, if imagination could raise itself so high, how I would remain at the terrible sight offered to my eyes. I know not what to say to you, gentlemen, save that I remained so amazed and beside myself, and so bereft of all my senses, that I must have seemed a marble statue to anyone who saw me at that moment. But now that the confused murmur of the people, the raised voices of the criers, the piteous words of Timbrio, and the consolatory words of the priests, and the undoubted recognition of my good friend, had brought me from my first amazement, and the seething blood came to give aid to my fainting heart, awakening in it the wrath befitting the crying vengeance for Timbrio's wrong, without regarding the danger I incurred, but only that of Timbrio, to see if I could set him free or follow him to the life beyond, fearing but little to lose mine, I laid hand on my sword; and, with more than ordinary fury, forced my way through the confused crowd, till I came to where Timbrio was. He, not knowing if so many swords had been unsheathed on his behalf, was watching what was going on with perplexed and anguished mind, until I said to him: "Where, Timbrio, is the strength of your valorous breast? What do you hope, or what do you wait for? Why not avail yourself of the present opportunity? seek, true friend, to save your life whilst mine forms a shield against the injustice, which I think is being done you here." These words of mine and Timbrio's recognition of me caused him to forget all fear and to break the bonds or fetters from his hands; but all his ardour would have availed little, had not the priests, moved with compassion, aided his wish. These seized him bodily, and despite those who sought to hinder it, entered with him into a church hard by, leaving me in the midst of all the officers of justice, who with great persistence endeavoured to seize me, as at last they did, since my strength alone was not capable of resisting so many strengths combined; and with more violence than in my opinion my offence deserved, they took me to the public gaol, wounded with two wounds. My boldness and the fact that Timbrio had escaped increased my fault, and the judges' anger; they, weighing carefully the crime committed by me, deeming it just that I should die, straightway pronounced the cruel sentence and awaited another day to execute it. This sad news came to Timbrio there in the church where he was, and as I afterwards learned, my sentence caused him more emotion than his own death-sentence had done; and to free me from it, he again offered to surrender himself once more to the power of the law; but the priests advised him that that was of little avail, nay rather, was adding evil to evil and misfortune to misfortune, since his surrender would not bring about my release, for that it could not take place without my being punished for the fault committed. Not a few arguments were needed to persuade Timbrio not to give himself up to justice; but he calmed himself by deciding in his mind to do for me next day what I had done for him, in order to pay me in the same coin or die in the attempt. I was informed of all his intentions by a priest who came to confess me, through whom I sent him word that the best remedy my calamity could have was that he should escape and seek with all speed to inform the viceroy of Barcelona of all that had happened, before the judges of that place should execute judgment on him. I also learned the reason why my friend Timbrio was consigned to bitter punishment, as the same priest I have mentioned to you told me; it was that, as Timbrio came journeying through the kingdom of Catalonia, on leaving Perpignan, he fell in with a number of brigands, who had as lord and chief a valiant Catalán gentleman, who by reason of certain enmities was in the band--as it is the time-honoured custom of that kingdom for those who have suffered from an enemy, whenever they are persons of mark, to join one, and to inflict all the evil they can, not only on lives, but on property, a practice opposed to all Christianity, and worthy of all commiseration. It happened then that while the brigands were busied in robbing Timbrio of what he had with him, that moment their lord and captain came up, and as after all he was a gentleman, he did not wish that any wrong should be done to Timbrio before his eyes; but rather, deeming him a man of worth and talents, he made him a thousand courteous offers, asking him to remain with him that night in a place near by, for that on the morrow he would give him a safe-conduct so that without any fear he might pursue his journey until he left that province. Timbrio could not but do what the courteous gentleman asked of him, constrained by the good offices received from him; they went off together and came to a little spot where they were joyously received by the people of the place. But fortune, which up till then had jested with Timbrio, ordained that that same night a company of soldiers, gathered together for this very purpose, should fall in with the brigands: and having surprised them, they easily routed them. And though they could not seize the captain, they seized and killed many others, and one of the prisoners was Timbrio, whom they took for a notorious robber in that band, and as you may imagine, he must undoubtedly have much resembled him, since, though the other prisoners testified that he was not the man they thought, telling the truth about all that had happened, yet malice had such power in the breasts of the judges that without further inquiry they sentenced him to death. And this would have been carried out, had not Heaven, that favours just purposes, ordained that the galleys should depart, and I remain on land to do what I have so far been telling you I did. Timbrio was in the church, and I in gaol, arranging that he should set out that night for Barcelona, and while I was waiting to see where the rage of the offended judges would end, Timbrio and I were freed from our misfortune amidst another yet greater that befell them. But would that Heaven had been kind and wreaked on me alone the fury of its wrath, if but it had been averted from that poor unfortunate people who placed their wretched necks beneath the edges of a thousand barbarous swords. It would be a little more than midnight, an hour suited for wicked onslaughts, at which the wearied world is wont to yield its wearied limbs to the arms of sweet sleep, when suddenly there arose among all the people a confused hubbub of voices crying: "To arms, to arms, the Turks are in the land." The echoes of these sad cries--who doubts but that they caused terror in the breasts of the women and even set consternation in the brave hearts of the men? I know not what to say to you, sirs, save that in an instant the wretched land began to burn so greedily that the very stones with which the houses were built seemed but to offer fitting fuel to the kindled fire that was consuming all. By the light of the raging flames the barbarous scimetars were seen flashing and the white turbans appearing of the Turks, who, all aflame, were breaking down the doors of the houses with axes or hatchets of hard steel, and entering therein, were coming out laden with Christian spoils. One carried the wearied mother, another the tender little son, who with faint and weak groans pleaded, the mother for her son, and the son for his mother; and one I know there was who with profane hand stayed the fulfilment of the rightful desire of the chaste maiden newly-wed and of the hapless husband, before whose weeping eyes mayhap he saw culled the fruit the ill-starred one was thinking in a short time to enjoy. So great was the confusion, so many the cries and minglings of these different voices that they caused much terror. The savage and devilish rabble, seeing what little resistance was made them, dared to enter the hallowed temples, and lay infidel hands on the holy relics, placing in their bosoms the gold with which they were adorned, and dashing them to the ground with loathsome contempt. Little availed the priest his holiness, the friar his refuge, the old man his snowy hair, the boy his gallant youth, or the little child his simple innocence, for from all those unbelieving dogs carried off booty. They, after burning the houses, robbing the temple, deflowering the maidens, and slaying the defenders, at the time the dawn was coming, more wearied than sated with what they had done, returned without any hindrance to their vessels, having already loaded them with all the best the village contained, leaving it desolate and without inhabitant, for they were taking with them nearly all the people and the rest had taken refuge in the mountain. Who at so sad a sight could have kept his hands still and his eyes dry? But, ah! our life is so full of woes that, for all the mournful disaster I have related to you, there were Christian hearts that rejoiced, even those of the men in the gaol who, amidst the general unhappiness, recovered their own happiness, for, pretending to go and defend the village, they broke the gates of the prison, and set themselves free, each one seeking not to attack the enemy, but to save himself, and amongst them I enjoyed the freedom so dearly gained. And seeing there was no one to face the enemy, through fear of falling into their clutches, or returning to the clutches of the prison, forsaking the wasted village, with no small pain at what I had seen, and with that caused by my wounds, I followed a man who told me he would bring me safely to a monastery which was in those mountains, where I would be cured of my hurts and even defended, if they sought to seize me again. In a word I followed him, as I have told you, in the desire to learn what my friend Timbrio's fortune had wrought; he, as I afterwards learned, had escaped with some wounds, and followed over the mountain another road different from that I took; he stopped at the port of Rosas, where he remained some days, seeking to learn what fate had been mine, and at last, not learning any news, he went away in a ship and came with a favouring wind to the great city of Naples. I returned to Barcelona, and there furnished myself with what I needed; and then, being healed of my wounds, I resumed my journey, and, no misadventure happening to me, came to Naples, where I found Timbrio ill; and such was the joy we both felt at seeing each other, that I have not the power to describe it properly to you now. There we told each other of our lives, and of all that had happened to us up to that moment; but this my pleasure was all watered by seeing Timbrio not so well as I could wish, nay rather so ill, and with so strange a disease, that if I had not come at that moment, I might have come in time to perform the rites of his death, and not to celebrate the joys of seeing him. After he had learnt from me all he wanted, with tears in his eyes he said to me: "Ah, friend Silerio! I truly think that Heaven seeks to add to the load of my misfortunes, so that, by giving me health through your safety, I may remain every day under greater obligation to serve you." These words of Timbrio's moved me; but, as they seemed to me courtesies so little used between us, they filled me with wonder. And not to weary you in telling you word for word what I replied to him, and what he answered further, I shall only tell you that Timbrio, unhappy man, was in love with a notable lady of that city, whose parents were Spaniards, though she had been born in Naples. Her name was Nisida, and her beauty so great, that I make bold to say that nature summed up in her its highest perfections; and in her modesty and beauty were so united, that what the one enflamed the other chilled, and the desires her grace raised to the loftiest heaven, her modest propriety brought down to the lowest depths of earth. From this cause Timbrio was as poor in hope as rich in thoughts; and above all failing in health, and in the plight of ending his days without disclosing his state--such was the fear and reverence he had conceived for the fair Nisida. But after I had fully learnt his disease, and had seen Nisida, and considered the quality and nobility of her parents, I determined to waive for him property, life and honour, and more, if more I had in my power to bestow. And so I employed an artifice, the strangest heard or read of up till now; which was, that I decided to dress up as a buffoon, and with a guitar to enter Nisida's house, which, as her parents were, as I have said, among the principal people of the city, was frequented by many other buffoons. This decision seemed good to Timbrio, and straightway he left to the hands of my skill all his happiness. Forthwith I had several elegant costumes made, of various kinds, and, putting them on, I began to rehearse my new character before Timbrio, who laughed not a little at seeing me thus clothed in buffoon's garb; and to see if my skill equalled the dress, he told me to say something to him, pretending that he was a great prince, and I newly come to visit him. And if memory does not fail me, and you, sirs, are not tired of listening to me, I will tell you what I sang to him then, as it was the first time.'

All said that nothing would give them greater pleasure, than to learn in detail all the issue of his affair, and so they bade him not to fail to tell them anything, however trivial it might be.

'Since you give me this permission,' said the hermit, 'I have no desire to fail to tell you how I began to give examples of my foolery, for it was with these verses that I sang to Timbrio, imagining him to be a great lord to whom I was saying them:

SILERIO. From a prince whose path is true, Levelled by a rule so right, _What, save deeds that Heaven delight, Can we hope from him to view?_

Neither in this present age, Nor in times of long ago, Hath a State been ruled, I know, By a prince who is so sage, One whose zeal is measured true By the Christian rule of right:-- _What, save deeds that Heaven delight, Can we hope from him to view?_

For another's good he toils, Mercy ever in his eye, In his bosom equity, Seeking ne'er another's spoils: Unto him the most, 'tis true, In the world the least is, quite:-- _What, save deeds that Heaven delight, Can we hope from him to view?_

And thy name for kindly Love, Which doth raise itself to Heaven, That a holy soul hath given Unto thee, doth clearly prove That thy course thou keepest true, And art loyal to Heaven's right:-- _What, save deeds that Heaven delight, Can we hope from him to view?_

When a prince's Christian breast Shrinketh aye from cruelty, Righteousness and clemency Are his guardians trustiest: When a prince, where none pursue, Towards the sky, doth raise his flight:-- _What, save deeds that Heaven delight, Can we hope from him to view?_

'These and other things of more jest and laughter I then sang to Timbrio, seeking to adapt the spirit and bearing of my body, so that I might in every way show myself a practised buffoon: and so well did I get on in the part, that in a few days I was known by all the chief people in the city, and the fame of the Spanish buffoon flew through it all, until at last they desired to see me in the house of Nisida's father, which desire I would have fulfilled for them with much readiness, if I had not purposely waited to be asked. But at length I could not excuse myself from going there one day when they had a banquet, where I saw more closely the just cause Timbrio had for suffering, and that which Heaven gave me to rob me of happiness all the days I shall remain in this life. I saw Nisida, Nisida I saw, that I might see no more, nor is there more to see after having seen her. Oh mighty power of love, against which our mighty powers avail but little! can it be that in an instant, in a moment, thou shouldst bring the props and armaments of my loyalty to such a pass, as to level them all with the ground! Ah, if only the thought of who I was had stayed with me a little for aid, the friendship I owed to Timbrio, Nisida's great worth, and the ignominious costume in which I found myself, which all hindered the hope of winning her (the staff wherewith love, in the beginnings of love, advances or retires) from springing up together with the new and loving desire that had sprung up in me. In a word I saw the beauty I have told you, and since to see her was of such moment to me, I sought ever to win the friendship of her parents, and of all her household; and this by playing the wit and the man of breeding, playing my part with the greatest discretion and grace in my power. And when a gentleman who was at table that day asked me to sing something in praise of Nisida's beauty, fortune willed that I should call to mind some verses, which I had made, many days before, for another all but similar occasion; and adopting them for the present one, I repeated them to this effect:

SILERIO. 'Tis from thine own self we see, Lady fair, how kind is Heaven, For it hath, in giving thee, Unto earth an image given, Of its veiled radiancy. Easily we come to know, If it could not more bestow And thou couldst no more desire, That he highly must aspire, Who aspires your praise to show.

All the sovereign, matchless grace Of that beauty from afar, Which to Heaven doth us raise, Tongue of man could not but mar,-- Let the tongue of Heaven praise, Saying,--and 'tis not in vain-- That the soul which doth contain Such a being for its pride, More than aught on earth beside Should the lovely veil attain.

From the sun she took her hair, From the peaceful Heaven her brow, Of her eyes the light so fair From a radiant star which now Shineth not when they are there; From the cochineal and the snow, Boldly and with might, I trow, Did she steal their lovely hue, For to thy fair cheek is due The perfections that they show.

Teeth and lips of ivory And of coral, whence a spring Issues, rich in fantasy, Full of wisest reasoning, And celestial harmony; But of marble stubbornest She hath made her lovely breast, Yet in truth we see that earth Is made better by her worth, E'en as Heaven itself is blest.

'With these and other things that I then sang, all were so charmed with me, and especially Nisida's parents, that they offered me all I might need, and asked me to let no day go by without visiting them; and so, without my purpose being discovered or imagined, I came to achieve my first design, which was to expedite my entrance into the house of Nisida, who enjoyed extremely my bright ways. But now that the lapse of many days, and my frequent converse and the great friendship all that household showed me, had removed some shadows from the excessive fear I felt at disclosing my intent to Nisida, I determined to see how far went the fortune of Timbrio, whose only hope for it lay in my solicitude. But woe is me! I was then more ready to ask a salve for my wound than health for another's; for Nisida's grace, beauty, discretion, and modesty had so wrought in my soul that it was placed in no less an extreme of grief and love than that of hapless Timbrio. To your discreet imagination I leave it to picture what a heart could feel in which there fought, on the one hand, the laws of friendship, and, on the other, the inviolable laws of Cupid; for, if those obliged it not to go beyond what they and reason asked of it, these constrained it to set store by what was due to its happiness. These attacks and struggles afflicted me in such wise that, without procuring another's health I began to have fears for my own, and to grow so weak and pale that I caused general compassion in all that saw me, and those who showed it most were Nisida's parents; and even she herself, with pure and Christian sympathy, often asked me to tell her the cause of my disease, offering me all that was necessary for its cure. "Ah!" would I say to myself whenever Nisida made me such offers, "with what ease, fair Nisida, could your hand cure the evil your beauty has wrought! but I boast myself so good a friend that, though I counted my cure as certain as I count it impossible and uncertain, it would be impossible for me to accept it." And since these thoughts at such moments disturbed my fancy, I did not succeed in making any reply to Nisida; whereat she and a sister of hers, who was called Blanca (less in years, though not less in discretion and beauty than Nisida), were amazed, and with increasing desire to know the origin of my sadness, with many importunities asked me to conceal from them nought of my grief. Seeing, then, that fortune offered me the opportunity of putting into practice what my cunning had brought so far, once, when by chance the fair Nisida and her sister found themselves alone, and returned anew to ask what they had asked so often, I said to them: "Think not, ladies, that the silence I have up till now kept in not telling you the cause of the pain you imagine I feel has been caused by my small desire to obey you, since it is very clear that if my lowly state has any happiness in this life, it is to have thereby succeeded in coming to know you, and to serve you as retainer. The only cause has been the thought that, though I reveal it, it will not serve for more than to give you grief, seeing how far away is its cure. But now that it is forced upon me to satisfy you in this, you must know, ladies, that in this city is a gentleman, a native of my own country, whom I hold as master, refuge, and friend, the most generous, discreet, and courtly man that may be found far and wide. He is here, away from his dear native land, by reason of certain quarrels which befell him there and forced him to come to this city, believing that, if there in his own land he left enemies, here in a foreign land friends would not fail him. But his belief has turned out so mistaken that one enemy alone, whom, without knowing how, he has made here for himself, has placed him in such a pass that if Heaven do not help him he will end his friendships and enmities by ending his life. And as I know the worth of Timbrio (for this is the name of the gentleman whose misfortune I am relating to you), and know what the world will lose in losing him and what I shall lose if I lose him, I give the tokens of feeling you have seen, and even they are small compared to what the danger in which Timbrio is placed ought to move me to. I know well that you will desire to know, ladies, who is the enemy who has placed so valorous a gentleman as he whom I have depicted to you in such a pass; but I also know that, in naming him to you, you will not wonder save that he has not yet destroyed him and slain him. His enemy is love, the universal destroyer of our peace and prosperity; this fierce enemy took possession of his heart. On entering this city Timbrio beheld a fair lady of singular worth and beauty, but so high placed and so modest that the hapless one has never dared to reveal to her his thought." To this point had I come when Nisida said to me: "Truly, Astor," for this was my name for the nonce, "I know not if I can believe that that gentleman is as valorous and discreet as you say, since he has allowed himself so easily to surrender to an evil desire so newly born, yielding himself so needlessly to the arms of despair; and though I understand but little these effects of love, yet it seems to me that it is folly and weakness for him who is cast down by them to fail to reveal his thoughts to her who inspires it in him, though she be of all the worth conceivable. For what shame can result to her from knowing that she is well loved, or to him what greater evil from her harsh and petulant reply than the death he himself brings on himself by being silent? It would not be right that because a judge has a reputation for sternness, anyone should fail to allege proof of his claim. But let us suppose that the death take place of a lover as silent and timid as that friend of yours; tell me, would you call the lady with whom he was in love cruel? No indeed, for one can scarcely relieve the need which does not come to one's knowledge, nor does it fall within one's duty to seek to learn it so as to relieve it. So, forgive me, Astor, but the deeds of that friend of yours do not make very true the praises you give him." When I heard such words from Nisida, straightway I could have wished by mine to reveal to her all the secret of my breast, but, as I understood the goodness and simplicity with which she expressed them, I had to check myself, waiting for a better and more private opportunity, and thus I replied to her: "When the affairs of love, fair Nisida, are regarded with free eyes, follies so great are seen in them that they are no less worthy of laughter than of pity: but if the soul finds itself entangled in love's subtle net, then the feelings are so fettered and so beside their wonted selves, that memory merely serves as treasurer and guardian of the object the eyes have regarded, the understanding is of use only in searching into and learning the worth of her whom it loves well, and the will in consenting that the memory and understanding should not busy themselves with aught else: and so the eyes see like a silvered mirror, for they make everything larger. Now hope increases when they are favoured, now fear when they are cast down; and thus what has happened to Timbrio, happens to many, that deeming at first very high the object to which their eyes were raised, they lose the hope of attaining it, but not in such wise that love does not say to them there within the soul: Who knows? it might be; and thereat hope goes, as the saying is, between two waters, while if it should forsake them altogether, love would flee with it. And hence it arises that the heart of the afflicted lover walks between fearing and daring, and without venturing to tell it, he braces himself up, and presses together his wound, hoping, though he knows not from whom, for the remedy from which he sees himself so far away. In this very plight I have found Timbrio, though, in spite of all, he has, at my persuasion, written to the lady for whom he is dying, a letter which he gave to me that I might give it to her and see if there appeared in it anything in any way unseemly, so that I might correct it. He charged me also to seek the means of placing it in his lady's hands, which, I think, will be impossible, not because I will not hazard it, since the least I will hazard to serve him will be life, but because it seems to me that I shall not find an opportunity to give it." "Let us see it," said Nisida, "for I wish to see how discreet lovers write." Straightway I drew from my bosom a letter which had been written some days before, in the hope of an opportunity for Nisida to see it, and fortune offering to me this one, I showed it to her. As I had read it many times, it remained in my memory, and its words were these:

TIMBRIO TO NISIDA.

"I had determined, fair lady, that my ill-starred end might declare to you who I was, since it seemed to me better that you should praise my silence in death than blame my boldness in life; but as I think it befits my soul to leave this world in favour with you, so that in the next love may not deny it the reward for what it has suffered, I make you cognisant of the state in which your rare beauty has placed me. It is such that, though I could indicate it, I would not obtain its cure, since for small things no one should make bold to offend your exalted worth, whereby, and by your honourable generosity I hope to renew life to serve you, or to win death to offend you never more."

'Nisida was listening with much attention to this letter, and, when she had heard it all, said: "The lady to whom this letter is sent has naught to complain of, unless, from pure pride, she has become prudish, a failing from which the greater part of the ladies in this city are not free. But nevertheless, Astor, do not fail to give it to her, since, as I have already told you, more evil cannot be expected from her reply, than that the evil you say your friend suffers now should become worse. And to encourage you the more, I wish to assure you that there is no woman so coy and so on the alert to watch over her honour that it grieves her much to see and learn that she is loved, for then she knows that the opinion she holds of herself is not vain, while it would be the contrary if she saw she was wooed by none." "I know well, lady, that what you say is true," I replied, "but I am afraid that, if I make bold to give it, it must at least cost me the refusal of admittance henceforward into that house, whereat there would come to me no less hurt than to Timbrio." "Seek not, Astor," replied Nisida, "to confirm the sentence which the judge has not yet given. Be of good courage, for this on which you venture is no fierce conflict." "Would to Heaven, fair Nisida," I answered, "that I saw myself in that pass, for more readily would I offer my breast to the danger and fierceness of a thousand opposing arms than my hand to give this loving letter to her who, I fear, being offended by it, must hurl upon my shoulders the punishment another's fault deserves. But, in spite of these objections, I intend to follow, lady, the counsel you have given me, though I shall wait for a time when fear shall not occupy my feelings as much as now. Meanwhile I entreat you to pretend that you are the one to whom this letter is sent, and give me some reply to take to Timbrio, in order that by this deceit he may be comforted a little, and time and opportunities may reveal to me what I am to do." "A poor artifice you would employ," answered Nisida, "for, granted that I were now to give, in another's name, some soft or disdainful reply, do you not see that time, that discloses our ends, will clear up the deceit, and Timbrio will be more angry with you than satisfied? Especially as since I have not hitherto replied to such letters, I would not wish to begin by giving replies in a feigned and lying manner; but, though I know I am going contrary to what I owe to myself, if you promise to tell me who the lady is, I will tell you what to say to your friend, and such words that he will be pleased for the nonce, and even though afterwards things turn out contrary to what he thinks, the lie will not be found out thereby." "Do not ask this of me, Nisida," I answered, "for to tell you her name places me in confusion as great as I would be placed in if I gave her the letter. Suffice it to know that she is of high degree, and that, without doing you any detriment, she is not inferior to you in beauty, and saying this, it seems to me, I praise her more than all women born." "I am not surprised that you say this of me," said Nisida, "since, with men of your condition and calling, to flatter is their business; but, leaving all this on one side, as I do not wish you to lose the comfort of so good a friend, I advise you to tell him that you went to give the letter to his lady, and that you have held with her all the discourses you have held with me, without omitting anything, and how she read your letter, and the encouragement she gave you to take it to his lady, thinking she was not the one to whom it came, and that, though you did not make bold to declare everything, you have come to this conclusion from her words that, when she learns she is the one for whom the letter came, the deceit and the undeceiving will not cause her much pain. In this way he will receive some solace in his trouble, and afterwards, on revealing your intention to his lady, you can reply to Timbrio what she replies to you, since, up to the moment she knows it, this lie remains in force, and the truth of what may follow, without to-day's deceit interfering." I was left marvelling at Nisida's discreet project, and indeed not without mistrust of the honesty of my own artifice; and so, kissing her hands for the good counsel, and agreeing with her that I was to give her a particular account of whatever happened in this affair, I went and told Timbrio all that had happened to me with Nisida. Thence came it that hope came into his soul and turned anew to sustain him, banishing from his heart the clouds of chilly fear that up till then had kept him in gloom; and all this pleasure was increased by my promising him at every step that my steps should only be devoted to his service, and that when next I found myself with Nisida, he should win the game of skill with as fair a success as his thoughts deserved. One thing I have forgotten to tell you, that all the time I was talking with Nisida and her sister, the younger sister never spoke a word, but with a strange silence ever hung on mine; and I can tell you, sirs, that, if she was silent, it was not because she could not speak with all discretion and grace, for in these two sisters nature showed all she has in her power to bestow. Nevertheless, I know not if I should tell you that I would that Heaven had denied me the happiness of having known them, especially Nisida, the beginning and end of all my misfortune; but what can I do, if that which the fates have ordained cannot be stayed by human means? I loved, love, and shall love Nisida well, yet without hurt to Timbrio, as my wearied tongue has well shown, for I never spoke to her, but it was on Timbrio's behalf, ever concealing, with more than ordinary discretion, my own pain, so as to cure another's. It happened then, that as Nisida's beauty was so engraven on my soul from the first moment my eyes beheld her, being unable to keep so rich a treasure concealed in my breast, whenever I found myself at times alone or apart, I used to reveal it in some loving and mournful songs under the veil of a feigned name. And so one night, thinking that neither Timbrio nor anyone else was listening to me, to comfort somewhat my wearied spirit, in a retired apartment, to the accompaniment only of a lute, I sang some verses, which, as they placed me in the direst turmoil, I shall have to repeat to you. They were as follows:

SILERIO. What labyrinth is this that doth contain My foolish and exalted fantasy? Who hath my peace transformed to war and pain, And to such sadness all my jollity? Unto this land, where I can hope to gain A tomb alone, what fate hath guided me? Who, who, once more will guide my wandering thought Unto the bounds a healthy mind hath sought?

Could I but cleave this breast of mine in twain, Could I but rob myself of dearest life, That earth and Heaven, at last content, might deign To leave me loyal 'midst my passion's strife, Without my faltering when I feel the pain, With mine own hand would I direct the knife Against my breast, but if I die, there dies His hope of love; the fire doth higher rise.

Let the blind god his golden arrows shower In torrents, straight against my mournful heart Aiming in maddened frenzy, let the power Of fiercest rage direct the cruel dart; For, lo, of happiness a plenteous store I gain, when I conceal the grievous smart; Ashes and dust though stricken breast become, Rich is the guerdon of my noble doom.

Eternal silence on my wearied tongue The law of loyal friendship will impose, By whose unequalled virtue grows less strong The pain that never hopes to find repose; But, though it never cease, and seek to wrong My health and honour, yet, amidst my woes, My faith, as ever, shall more steadfast be Than firmest rock amidst the angry sea.

The moisture that my weeping eyes distil, The duteous service that my tongue can do, The sacrifice I offer of my will, The happiness that to my toil is due, These gain sweet spoil and recompense; but still, 'Tis he must take them, he my friend so true; May Heaven be gracious to my fond design Which seeks another's good and loses mine.

Help me, oh gentle Love, uplift and guide My feeble spirit in the doubtful hour, To soul and faltering tongue, whate'er betide, Send in the long-expected moment power, That shall be strong, with boldness at its side, To make that easy which was hard before, And bravely dash upon fate and misfortune, Until it shall attain to greatest fortune.

'It resulted from my being so transported in my endless imaginings that I did not take heed to sing these verses I have repeated, in a voice as low as I ought, nor was the place where I was so secret as to prevent their being listened to by Timbrio; and when he heard them, it came into his mind that mine was not free from love, and that if I felt any, it was for Nisida, as could be gathered from my song; and though he discovered the true state of my thoughts, he did not discover that of my wishes, but rather understanding them to be contrary to what I did think, he decided to depart that very night and go to where he might be found by nobody, only to leave me the opportunity of alone serving Nisida. All this I learnt from a page of his, who was acquainted with all his secrets, who came to me in great distress and said to me: "Help, Señor Silerio, for Timbrio, my master and your friend, wishes to leave us and go away this night. He has not told me where, but only that I should get for him I do not know how much money, and that I should tell no one he is going, especially telling me not to tell you: and this thought came to him after he had been listening to some verse or other you were singing just now. To judge from the excessive grief I have seen him display, I think he is on the verge of despair; and as it seems to me that I ought rather to assist in his cure than to obey his command, I come to tell it to you, as to one who can intervene to prevent him putting into practice so fatal a purpose." With strange dread I listened to what the page told me, and went straightway to see Timbrio in his apartment, and, before I went in, I stopped to see what he was doing. He was stretched on his bed, face downwards, shedding countless tears accompanied by deep sighs, and with a low voice and broken words, it seemed to me that he was saying this: "Seek, my true friend Silerio, to win the fruit your solicitude and toil has well deserved, and do not seek, by what you think you owe to friendship for me, to fail to gratify your desire, for I will restrain mine, though it be with the extreme means of death; for, since you freed me from it, when with such love and fortitude you offered yourself to the fierceness of a thousand swords, it is not much that I should now repay you in part for so good a deed by giving you the opportunity to enjoy her in whom Heaven summed up all its beauty, and love set all my happiness, without the hindrance my presence can cause you. One thing only grieves me, sweet friend, and it is that I cannot bid you farewell at this bitter parting, but accept for excuse that you are the cause of it. Oh, Nisida, Nisida! how true is it of your beauty, that he who dares to look upon it must needs atone for his fault by the penalty of dying for it! Silerio saw it, and if he had not been so struck with it as I believe he has been, he would have lost with me much of the reputation he had for discretion. But since my fortune has so willed it, let Heaven know that I am no less Silerio's friend than he is mine; and, as tokens of this truth, let Timbrio part himself from his glory, exile himself from his bliss, and go wandering from land to land, away from Silerio and Nisida, the two true and better halves of his soul." And straightway, with much passion, he rose from the bed, opened the door, and finding me there said to me: "What do you want, friend, at such an hour? Is there perchance any news?" "Such news there is," I answered him, "that I had not been sorry though it were less." In a word, not to weary you, I got so far with him, that I persuaded him and gave him to understand that his fancy was false, not as to the fact of my being in love, but as to the person with whom, for it was not with Nisida, but with her sister Blanca; and I knew how to tell him this in such a way that he counted it true. And that he might credit it the more, memory offered me some stanzas which I myself had made many days before, to another lady of the same name, which I told him I had composed for Nisida's sister. And they were so much to the purpose, that though it be outside the purpose to repeat them now, I cannot pass them by in silence. They were these:

SILERIO. Oh Blanca, whiter than the snow so white, Whose heart is harder yet than frozen snow, My sorrow deem thou not to be so light That thou to heal it mayst neglect. For, lo, If thy soul is not softened by this plight-- That soul that doth conspire to bring me woe-- As black will turn my fortune to my shame As white thou art in beauty and in name.

Oh gentle Blanca, in whose snowy breast Nestleth the bliss of love for which I yearn, Before my breast, with woeful tears oppressed, Doth unto dust and wretched earth return, Show that thine own is in some way distressed With all the grief and pain wherein I burn, A guerdon this will be, so rich and sure As to repay the evil I endure.

Thou'rt white as silver; for thy loveliness I would exchange gold of the finest grain, I'd count it wealth, if thee I might possess, To lose the loftiest station I might gain: Since, Blanca, thou dost know what I confess, I pray thee, cease thy lover to disdain, And grant it may be Blanca I must thank That in love's lottery I draw no blank.

Though I were sunk in blankest poverty And but a farthing had to call my own, If that fair thing were thou, I would not be Changed for the richest man the world hath known. This would I count my chief felicity, Were Juan de Espera en Dios[115] and I but one, If, at the time the _Blancas_ three I sought, Thou, Blanca, in the midst of them were caught.

Silerio would have gone further with his story, had he not been stopped by the sound of many pipes and attuned flageolets, which was heard at their backs; and, turning their heads, they saw coming towards them about a dozen gay shepherds, set in two lines, and in the midst came a comely herdsman, crowned with a garland of honeysuckle and other different flowers. He carried a staff in one hand; and with staid step advanced little by little, and the other shepherds, with the same success, all playing their instruments, gave pleasing and rare token of themselves. As soon as Elicio saw them, he recognised that Daranio was the shepherd they brought in the midst, and that the others were all neighbours, who wished to be present at his wedding, to which also Thyrsis and Damon had come; and to gladden the betrothal feast, and to honour the bridegroom, they were proceeding in that manner towards the village. But Thyrsis, seeing that their coming had imposed silence upon Silerio's story, asked him to spend that night together with them all in the village, where he would be waited upon with all the good-will possible, and might satisfy their wishes by finishing the incident he had begun. Silerio promised this, and at the same moment came up the band of joyous shepherds, who, recognising Elicio, and Daranio Thyrsis and Damon, his friends, welcomed one another with tokens of great joy; and renewing the music, and renewing their happiness, they turned to pursue the road they had begun. Now that they were coming nigh to the village, there came to their ears the sound of the pipe of the unloving Lenio, whereat they all received no little pleasure, for they already knew his extreme disposition, and so, when Lenio saw and knew them, without interrupting his sweet song, he came towards them singing as follows:

LENIO. Ah happy, happy all Brimful of gladness and of jollity, Fortunate will I call So fair a company, If it yield not unto Love's tyranny!

Whoso his breast declined To yield unto this cruel maddening wound, Within whose healthy mind Traitor Love is not found, Lo I will kiss beneath his feet the ground!

And happy everywhere The prudent herdsman will I call, the swain Who lives and sets his care On his poor flock, and fain Would turn to Love a face of cold disdain.

Ere the ripe season come, Such a one's ewe-lambs will be fit to bear, Bringing their lambkins home, And when the day is drear Pasturage will they find and waters clear.

If Love should for his sake Be angry and should turn his mind astray, Lo, his flock will I take With mine and lead the way To the clear stream, and to the meadow gay.

What time the sacred steam Of incense shall go flying to the sky, This is the prayer I deem To offer up on high, Kneeling on earth in zealous piety.

"Oh holy Heaven and just, Since thou protector art of those who seek To do thy will, whose trust Is in thee, help the weak, On whom for thy sake Love doth vengeance wreak.

"Let not this tyrant bear The spoils away that were thine own before, But with thy bounteous care And choice rewards once more Unto their senses do thou strength restore."

As Lenio ceased singing, he was courteously received by all the shepherds, and when he heard them name Damon and Thyrsis, whom he only knew by repute, he was astonished at seeing their admirable bearing, and so he said to them:

'What encomiums would suffice, though they were the best that could be found in eloquence, to have the power of exalting and applauding your worth, famous shepherds, if perchance love's follies were not mingled with the truths of your renowned writings? But since you are in love's decline, a disease to all appearance incurable, though my rude talents may pay you your due in valuing and praising your rare discretion, it will be impossible for me to avoid blaming your thoughts.'

'If you had yours, discreet Lenio,' replied Thyrsis, 'without the shadows of the idle opinion which fills them, you would straightway see the brightness of ours, and that they deserve more glory and praise for being loving, than for any subtlety or discretion they might contain.'

'No more, Thyrsis, no more,' replied Lenio, 'for I know well that with such great and such obstinate foes my reasonings will have little force.'

'If they had force,' answered Elicio, 'those who are here are such friends of truth, that not even in jest would they contradict it, and herein you can see, Lenio, how far you go from it, since there is no one to approve your words, or even to hold your intentions good.'

'Then in faith,' said Lenio, 'may your intentions not save you, oh Elicio, but let the air tell it, which you ever increase with sighs, and the grass of these meadows which grows with your tears, and the verses you sang the other day and wrote on the beeches of this wood, for in them will be seen what it is you praise in yourself and blame in me.'

Lenio would not have remained without a reply, had they not seen coming to where they were the fair Galatea, with the discreet shepherdesses Florisa and Teolinda, who, not to be recognised by Damon and Thyrsis, had placed a white veil before her fair face. They came and were received by the shepherds with joyous welcome, especially by the lovers Elicio and Erastro, who felt such strange content at the sight of Galatea, that Erastro, being unable to conceal it, in token thereof, without any one asking it of him, beckoned to Elicio to play his pipe, to the sound of which, with joyous and sweet accents, he sang the following verses:

ERASTRO. Let me but the fair eyes see Of the sun I am beholding; If they go, their light withholding, Soul, pursue them speedily. For without them naught is bright, Vainly may the soul aspire, Which without them doth desire Neither freedom, health nor light.

Whoso can may see these eyes Yet he cannot fitly praise; But if he would on them gaze He must yield his life as prize. Them I see and saw before, And each time that I behold, To the soul I gave of old New desires I give once more.

Nothing more can I bestow, Nor can fancy tell me more, If I may not her adore For the faith in her I show. Certain is my punishment If these eyes, so rich in bliss, Viewed but what I did amiss, Nor regarded my intent.

So much happiness I see That this day, though it endure For a thousand years and more, But a moment were to me. Time, that flies so swiftly by, Doth the flight of years withhold, Whilst the beauty I behold Of the life for which I die.

Peace and shelter in this sight Doth my loving soul acclaim, Living in the living flame Of its pure and lovely light, Wherewith Love doth prove its truth: In this flame it bids it win Sweetest life, and doth therein, Phœnix-like, renew its youth.

I go forth in eager quest Of sweet glory with my mind, In my memory I find That my happiness doth rest. There it lies, there it doth hide, Not in pomp, nor lofty birth, Not in riches of the earth, Nor in sovereignty nor pride.

Here Erastro ended his song, and the way was ended of going to the village, where Thyrsis, Damon and Silerio repaired to Elicio's house, so that the opportunity might not be lost of learning the end of the story of Silerio, which he had begun. The fair shepherdesses, Galatea and Florisa, offering to be present on the coming day at Daranio's wedding, left the shepherds, and all or most remained with the bridegroom, whilst the girls went to their houses. And that same night, Silerio, being urged by his friend Erastro, and by the desire which wearied him to return to his hermitage, ended the sequel of his story, as will be seen in the following book.

FOOTNOTES:

[115] Juan de Espera en Dios is supposed originally to have been a popular name for St. John the Baptist (_que esperaba al Mesías_). However this may be, the phrase is now applied to idlers, who, like Juan de las Zancas largas (the Castilian Mr. Micawber), fold their hands and expect something to turn up providentially. The expression recurs in _Algunas poesías inéditas de Luis Vélez de Guevara_ (see p. 11 of the _tirage à part_ of Sr. D. Adolfo Bonilla y San Martín's edition, reprinted from the _Revista de Aragón_, Madrid, 1902):--

Mas luego, en mi fe constante, Soy Luys de Espera-en-Infante, Como Juan de Espera-en-Dios.

An exceedingly doleful jest (in four volumes) was published at the end of the eighteenth century under the title of _Zumbas con que el famoso Juan de Espera en Dios, hijo de Millan, y sobrino de Juan de Buen Alma, acude á dar vayas, bregas y chascas con los alegres gracejos y salados períodos de la divertida série de su graciosa vida á la melancolía y sus macilentos contertulios en los desvanes de los desagrados aprehensivos donde intentan anidarse; las que traducidas del Español al Castellano irá dando á luz el Jueves de cada semana Don Joseph de Santos Capuano, según se las deparó la feliz casualidad á su hermano Don Santiago, y este se las raya remitiendo á Madrid, en gracia, obsequio, y para honesto recreo de los sencillos y claros labradores, y de los muy honrados y prudentes comerciantes, fabricantes, artesanos, menestrales, etc., aplicados y leales vasallos de S.M. á quienes se las dedica_ (Madrid, 1799). The prolix humorist who wrote this work declares (vol. i., p. 26) that the name was first applied to a certain Andrés Quixano Cerro--of Tirteafuera, no mean city, and one familiar to readers of _Don Quixote_, if not to geographers. This worthy is alleged to have supported the Moorish forays with pious fortitude, and to have remarked: "Obremos en nuestra defensa lo que dicte la razón en esta necesidad sin temer, y _esperemos en Dios_." His holy calm so edified his neighbours that they ceased using the name of Quixano Cerro and substituted Andrés de Espera en Dios in its stead. All of which may be believed or not, as the reader chooses.--J. F.-K.

BOOK III.

The joyful uproar there was that night in the village, on the occasion of Daranio's wedding, did not prevent Elicio, Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro from settling down together in a place where, without being disturbed by anyone, Silerio might continue the story he had begun, and he, when all together had given him pleasing silence, continued in this wise:

'From the feigned stanzas to Blanca, which I have told you I repeated to Timbrio, he was satisfied that my pain proceeded not from love of Nisida, but of her sister; and with this assurance, begging my forgiveness for the false idea he had had about me, he again entrusted me with his cure; and so I, forgetful of my own, did not neglect in the least what concerned his. Some days passed, during which fortune did not show me an opportunity as open as I could wish for disclosing to Nisida the truth of my thoughts, though she kept asking me how it was going with my friend in his love-affair, and if his lady as yet had any knowledge of it. In reply to this I said to her that the fear of offending her still kept me from venturing to tell her anything; whereat Nisida was very angry, calling me coward and of little sense, and adding to this that since I was playing the coward, either Timbrio did not feel the grief I reported of him, or I was not so true a friend of his as I said. All this induced me to make up my mind and reveal myself at the first opportunity, which I did one day when she was alone. She listened with strange silence to all I had to say to her, and I, as best I could, extolled to her Timbrio's worth, and the true love he had for her, which was so strong that it had brought me to take up so lowly a pursuit as that of a buffoon, merely to have an opportunity of telling her what I was telling her. To these I added other reasonings which Nisida must needs have thought were not without reason; but she would not show by words then what she could not afterwards keep concealed by deeds; rather with dignity and rare modesty she reproved my boldness, rebuked my daring, blamed my words and daunted my confidence, but not in such a way as to banish me from her presence, which was what I feared most; she merely ended by telling me to have henceforward more regard for what was due to her modesty, and to see to it that the artifice of my false dress should not be discovered--an ending this which closed and finished the tragedy of my life, since I understood thereby that Nisida would give ear to Timbrio's plaints. In what breast could or can be contained the extremity of grief that was then concealed in mine, since the end of its greatest desire was the finish and end of its happiness? I was gladdened by the good beginning I had given to Timbrio's cure, and this gladness redounded to my hurt, for it seemed to me, as was the truth, that, on seeing Nisida in another's power, my own was ended. Oh mighty force of true friendship, how far dost thou extend! how far didst thou constrain me! since I myself, impelled by thy constraint, by my own contriving whetted the knife which was to cut short my hopes, which, dying in my soul, lived and revived in Timbrio's, when he learned from me all that had passed with Nisida. But her way with him and me was so coy that she never showed at all that she was pleased with my solicitude or Timbrio's love, nor yet was she disdainful in such a manner that her displeasure and aversion made us both abandon the enterprise. This went on till it came to Timbrio's knowledge that his enemy Pransiles, the gentleman he had wronged in Xeres, being desirous of satisfying his honour, was sending him a challenge, indicating to him a free and secure field on an estate in the Duke of Gravina's territory, and giving him a term of six months from that date to the day of the combat. The care induced by this news did not cause him to become careless in what concerned his love-affair, but rather, by fresh solicitude on my part and services on his, Nisida came to demean herself in such a way that she did not show herself disdainful though Timbrio looked at her and visited at the house of her parents, preserving in all a decorum as honourable as befitted her worth. The term of the challenge now drawing near, Timbrio, seeing that the journey was inevitable for him, determined to depart, and before doing so, he wrote to Nisida a letter, of such a kind that with it he ended in a moment what I during many months and with many words had not begun. I have the letter in my memory, and to render my story complete, I will not omit to tell you that it ran thus:

TIMBRIO TO NISIDA

All hail to Nisida, from a loving swain Who is not hale nor ever hopes to be, Until his health from thine own hand he gain. These lines, I fear, will surely gain for me, Though they be written in my very blood, The abhorred reproach of importunity. And yet I may not, e'en although I would, Escape Love's torment, for my passions bear My soul along amidst their cruel flood. A fiery daring and a chilly fear Encompass me about, and I remain, Whilst thou dost read this letter, sad and drear; For when I write to thee, I do but gain Ruin if thou dost scorn my words, ah woe! And spurn my awkward phrases with disdain. True Heaven is my witness and doth know If I have not adored thee from the hour I saw the lovely face that is my foe. I saw thee and adored--What wouldst thou more? The peerless semblance of an angel fair What man is there but straightway would adore? Upon thy beauty, in the world so rare, My soul so keenly gazed that on thy face It could not rest its piercing gaze, for there Within thy soul it was upon the trace Of mighty loveliness, a paradise Giving assurance of a greater grace. On these rich pinions thou to Heaven dost rise And on the earth thou sendest dread and pain Unto the simple, wonder to the wise. Happy the soul that doth such bliss contain, And no less happy he who to Love's war Yields up his own that blissful soul to gain! Debtor am I unto my fatal star, That bade me yield to one who doth possess Within so fair a frame a soul so fair. To me thy mood, oh lady, doth confess That I was wrong when I aspired so high, And covereth with fear my hopefulness. But on my honest purpose I rely, I turn a bold face to despondency, New breath I gain when I to death am nigh. They say that without hope Love cannot be. 'Tis mere opinion: for I hope no more And yet the more Love's force doth master me. I love thee for thy goodness, and adore, Thy beauty draws me captive in its train, It was the net Love stretched in love's first hour That with rare subtlety it might constrain This soul of mine, careless and fancy-free, Unto the amorous knot, to know its strain. Love his dominion and his tyranny Within some breasts sustains by beauty's aid, But not within the curious fantasy, Which looks not on Love's narrow noose displayed In ringlets of fine gold that satisfy The heart of him who views them undismayed, Nor on the breast that he who turns his eye On breast alone, doth alabaster call Nor on the wondrous neck of ivory; But it regards the hidden all in all And contemplates the thousand charms displayed Within the soul that succour and enthral. The charms that are but mortal, doomed to fade, Unto the soul immortal bring not balm, Unless it leave the light and seek the shade. Thy peerless virtue carrieth off the palm, It maketh of my thoughts its spoil and prey, And all my lustful passions it doth calm. They are content and willingly obey, For by the worth thy merits ever show They seek their hard and bitter pain to weigh. I plough the sea and in the sand I sow When I am doomed by passion's mystic stress Beyond the viewing of thy face to go. I know how high thou art; my lowliness I see, and where the distance is so great, One may not hope, nor do I hope possess. Wherefore I find no cure to heal my state, Numerous my hardships as the stars of night, Or as the tribes the earth that populate. I understand what for my soul is right, I know the better, and the worse attain, Borne by the love wherein I take delight. But now, fair Nisida, the point I gain, Which I with mortal anguish do desire, Where I shall end the sorrow I sustain. Uplifted is the hostile arm in ire, The keen and ruthless sword awaiteth me, Each with thine anger 'gainst me doth conspire. Thy wrathful will soon, soon, avenged will be Upon the vain presumption of my will, Which was without a reason spurned by thee. No other pangs nor agonies would fill With agitation dread my mournful thought, Though greater than death's agonizing chill, If I could in my short and bitter lot But see thee towards my heart-felt wishes kind, As the reverse I see, that thou art not. Narrow the path that leads to bliss, I find, But broad and spacious that which leads to pain; By my misfortune this hath been designed, And death, that buttressed is on thy disdain, By this in anger and in haste doth run, Eager its triumph o'er my life to gain. By yonder path my bliss, well-nigh undone, Departs, crushed by the sternness thou dost show, Which needs must end my brief life all too soon. My fate hath raised me to the height of woe Where I begin e'en now to dread the scorn And anger of my sore-offended foe. 'Tis that I see the fire wherein I burn Is ice within thy breast, and this is why At the last moment I a coward turn. For if thou dost not show thee my ally, Of whom will my weak hand be not afraid, Though strength and skill the more accompany? What Roman warrior, if thou dost but aid, Or what Greek captain would oppose my might? Nay, from his purpose he would shrink dismayed. I would escape e'en from the direst plight, And from death's cruel hand away I'd bear The spoils of victory in his despite. Thou, thou, alone my lot aloft canst rear Above all human glory, or abase Unto the depths below--no bliss is there. For if, as pure Love had the power to raise, Fortune were minded to uphold my lot Safe 'midst the dangers of its lofty place, My hope which lieth where it hopeth naught, Itself would see exalted to a height Above the heaven where reigns the moon, in thought. Such am I that I now account delight The evil that thine angry scorn doth give Unto my soul in such a wondrous plight, If in thy memory I might see I live, And that perchance thou dost remember, sweet, To deal the wound which I as bliss receive. 'Twere easier far for me the tale complete To tell of the white sands beside the sea, Or of the stars that make the eighth heaven their seat, Than all the pain, the grief, the anxiety, Whereto the rigour of thy cruel disdain Condemns me, though I have not wounded thee. Seek not the measure of thy worth to gain From my humility; if we compare Loftiness with thee, 'twill on earth remain. Such as I am I love thee, and I dare To say that I advance in loving sure Unto the highest point in Love's career, Wherefore in merit I am not so poor That as an enemy thou shouldst me treat-- Rather, methinks, my guerdon should endure. So great a cruelty doth ill befit Such loveliness, and where we do perceive Such worth, there doth ingratitude ill sit. On thee fain would I call account to give Of a soul yielded thee; where was it thrown? How, when my soul is gone, do I yet live? Didst thou not deign to make my heart thy throne? What can he give thee more who loves thee more? Herein how well was thy presumption shown! I have been soulless from the earliest hour I saw thee for my bliss and for my pain, For all were pain if I saw thee no more. There I of my free heart gave thee the rein, Thou rulest me, for thee alone I live, And yet thy power can more than this attain. Within the flame of pure Love I revive And am undone, since from the death of Love I, like a phœnix, straightway life receive. This would I have thee think all things above, In faith of this my faith, that it is sure That I live glowing in the fire of Love, And that thou canst e'en after death restore Me unto life, and in a moment guide From the wild ocean to the peaceful shore. For Love in thee and power dwell side by side, And are united, reigning over me. They waver not nor falter in their pride-- And here I end lest I should weary thee.

'I know not whether it was the reasonings of this letter, or the many I had urged before on Nisida, assuring her of the true love Timbrio had for her, or Timbrio's ceaseless services, or Heaven that had so ordained it, that moved Nisida's heart to call me at the moment she finished reading it, and with tears in her eyes to say to me: "Ah, Silerio, Silerio! I verily believe that you have at the cost of my peace sought to gain your friend's! May the fates that have brought me to this pass make Timbrio's deeds accord with your words; and if both have deceived me, may Heaven take vengeance for my wrong, Heaven which I call to witness for the violence desire does me, making me keep it no longer concealed. But, alas, how light an acquittal is this for so weighty a fault! since I ought rather to die in silence so that my honour might live, than by saying what I now wish to say to you to bury it and end my life." These words of Nisida's made me confused, and yet more the agitation with which she uttered them; and desiring by mine to encourage her to declare herself without any fear, I had not to importune her much, for at last she told me that she not only loved, but adored Timbrio, and that she would always have concealed that feeling had not the compulsion of Timbrio's departure compelled her to disclose it. It is not possible to describe fitly the state I was in, shepherds, on hearing what Nisida said, and the feeling of love she showed she bore to Timbrio; and indeed it is well that a grief which extends so far should be beyond description. Not that I was grieved to see Timbrio loved, but to see myself rendered incapable of ever having happiness, since it was, and is clear, that I neither could nor can live without Nisida; for to see her, as I have said at other times, placed in another's arms, was to sever myself from all pleasure, and if fate granted me any at this pass, it was to consider the welfare of my friend Timbrio, and this was the cause why my death and the declaration of Nisida's love did not occur at one and the same moment. I listened to her as well as I could, and assured her as well as I knew how of the integrity of Timbrio's breast, whereat she replied to me that there was no need to assure her of that, for that she was of such a mind that she could not, nor ought she to, fail to believe me, only asking me, if it were possible, to manage to persuade Timbrio to seek some honourable means to avoid a combat with his foe: and when I replied that this was impossible without his being dishonoured, she was calmed, and taking from her neck some precious relics, she gave them to me that I might give them to Timbrio from her. As she knew her parents were to go and see Timbrio's fight, and would take her and her sister with them, but as she would not have the courage to be present at Timbrio's dire peril, it was also agreed between us that she should pretend to be indisposed, on which pretext she would remain in a pleasure-house where her parents were to lodge, which was half a league from the town where the combat was to take place, and that there she would await her bad or good fortune, according to Timbrio's. She bade me also, in order to shorten the anxiety she would feel to learn Timbrio's fortune, take with me a white kerchief which she gave me, and, if Timbrio conquered, bind it on my arm, and come back to give her the news; and, if he were vanquished, not to bind it, and so she would learn from afar by the token of the kerchief the beginning of her bliss or the end of her life. I promised her to do all she bade me, and taking the relics and the kerchief I took leave of her with the greatest sadness and the greatest joy I ever felt; my little fortune caused the sadness; Timbrio's great fortune the gladness. He learnt from me what I brought him from Nisida, whereat he was so joyous, happy, and proud, that the danger of the battle he awaited he counted as naught, for it seemed to him that in being favoured by his lady, not even death itself would be able to gainsay him. For the present I pass by in silence the exaggerated terms Timbrio used to show himself grateful for what he owed to my solicitude; for they were such that he seemed to be out of his senses while discoursing thereon. Being cheered, then, and encouraged by this good news, he began to make preparations for his departure, taking as seconds a Spanish gentleman, and another, a Neapolitan. And at the tidings of this particular duel countless people of the kingdom were moved to see it, Nisida's parents also going there, taking her and her sister Blanca with them. As it fell to Timbrio to choose weapons, he wished to show that he based his right, not on the advantage they possessed, but on the justice that was his, and so those he chose were the sword and dagger, without any defensive weapon. But few days were wanting to the appointed term, when Nisida and her father, with many other gentlemen, set out from the city of Naples; she, having arrived first, reminded me many times not to forget our agreement; but my wearied memory, which never served save to remind me of things alone that were unpleasing to me, so as not to change its character, forgot as much of what Nisida had told me as it saw was needful to rob me of life, or at least to set me in the miserable state in which I now see myself.'

The shepherds were listening with great attention to what Silerio was relating, when the thread of his story was interrupted by the voice of a hapless shepherd, who was singing among some trees, nor yet so far from the windows of the dwelling where they were, but that all that he said could not fail to be heard. The voice was such that it imposed silence on Silerio, who in no wise wished to proceed, but rather asked the other shepherds to listen to it, since for the little there remained of his story, there would be time to finish it. This would have annoyed Thyrsis and Damon, had not Elicio said to them:

'Little will be lost, shepherds, in listening to the luckless Mireno, who is without doubt the shepherd that is singing, and whom fortune has brought to such a pass that I fancy he hopes for nothing in the way of his happiness.'

'How can he hope for it,' said Erastro, 'if to-morrow Daranio marries the shepherdess Silveria, whom he thought to wed? But in the end Daranio's wealth has had more power with Silveria's parents than the abilities of Mireno.'

'You speak truth,' replied Elicio: 'but with Silveria the love she knew Mireno had for her should have had more power than any treasure; the more so that Mireno is not so poor that his poverty would be remarked, though Silveria were to wed him.'

Through these remarks which Elicio and Erastro uttered, the desire to learn what Mireno was singing increased in the shepherds; and so Silerio begged that no more might be said, and all with attentive ears stopped to listen to him. He, distressed by Silveria's ingratitude, seeing that next day she was wedding Daranio, with the rage and grief this deed caused him, had gone forth from his house accompanied only by his rebeck: and invited by the solitude and silence of a tiny little meadow which was hard by the walls of the village, and trusting that on a night so peaceful no one would listen to him, he sat down at the foot of a tree, and tuning his rebeck was singing in this wise:

MIRENO. Oh cloudless sky, that with so many eyes O'er all the world the thefts of Love beholdest, And in thy course dost fill with joy or grief Him who to their sweet cause his agonies Tells 'midst thy stillness, or whom thou withholdest From such delight, nor offerest him relief, If yet with thee be chief Kindness for me perchance, since now indeed In speech alone contentment must I find, Thou, knowing all my mind, My words--it is not much I ask--may'st heed; For, see, my voice of woe Shall with my sorrowing soul die 'neath the blow.

Ah now my wearied voice, my woeful cry, Scarce, scarce, will now offend the empty air; For I at last unto this pass am brought, That to the winds that angry hasten by, Love casts my hopes, and in another's care Hath placed the bliss that I deserving sought, The fruit my loving thought Did sow, the fruit watered by wearied tears By his triumphant hands will gathered be, And his the victory, Who was in fortune rich beyond his peers, But in deserving poor-- 'Tis fortune smooths the rough and makes it sure.

Then he who sees his happiness depart By any way, who doth his glory see Transformed into such bitter grievous pain-- Why ends he not his life with all its smart? Against the countless powers of destiny Why strives he not to break the vital chain? Slowly I pass amain Unto the peril sweet of bitter death. Wherefore, mine arm, bold 'midst thy weariness, Endure thou the distress Of living, since our lot it brighteneth To know that 'tis Love's will That grief should do the deed, as steel doth kill.

My death is certain, for it cannot be That he should live whose very hope is dead, And who from glory doth so far remain. Yet this I fear, that death, by Love's decree, May be impossible, that memory fed By a false confidence may live again In my despite. What then? For if the tale of my past happiness I call to mind, and see that all is gone, That I am now undone By the sad cares I in its stead possess, 'Twill serve the more to show That I from memory and from life should go.

Ah! chief and only good my soul hath known! Sun that didst calm the storm within my breast! Goal of the worth that is desired by me! Can it be that the day should ever dawn When I must know that thou rememberest No more, and Love that day doth let me see? Rather, ere this should be, Ere thy fair neck be by another's arms In all its loveliness encircled, ere Thy golden--nay thy hair Is gold, and ere its gold in all its charms Should make Daranio rich, Its end may the evil with my life's end reach.

None hath by faith better deserved than I To win thee; but I see that faith is dead, Unless it be by deeds made manifest. To certain grief and to uncertain joy I yield my life; and if I merited Thereby, I might hope for a gladsome feast. But in this cruellest Law used by Love, hath good desire no place, This proverb lovers did of old discover: The deed declares the lover, And as for me, who to my hurt possess Naught but the will to do, Wherein must I not fail, whose deeds are few?

I thought the law would clearly broken be In thee, that avaricious Love doth use; I thought that thou thine eyes on high wouldst raise Unto a captive soul that serves but thee, So ready to perform what thou dost choose, That, if thou didst but know, 'twould earn thy praise. For a faith that assays By the vain pomps of wealth so full of care All its desires, thou wouldst not change, I thought, A faith that was so fraught With tokens of good faith, Silveria fair. Thyself thou didst to gold Yield that thou mightst yield me to grief untold.

Oh poverty, that creepest on the ground, Cause of the grief that doth my soul enrage, He praiseth thee, thy face who never saw. Thy visage did my shepherdess confound, At once thy harshness did her love assuage, She to escape thee doth her foot withdraw. This is thy cruel law, Vainly doth one aspire the goal to find Of amorous purpose; thou high hopes abasest And countless changes placest Within the greedy breast of womankind, But never dost thou bless The worth of lovers with complete success.

Gold is a sun, whose ray the keenest eyes Blindeth, if on the semblance they be fed Of interest, that doth beguile the sight. He that is liberal-handed wins the prize, Even her hand, who, by her avarice led, Fair though she be, declares her heart's delight. 'Tis gold that turns the sight From the pure purpose and the faith sincere; More than a lover's firmness is undone By the diamond stone, Whose hardness turns to wax a bosom fair, However hard it be; Its fancy thus it winneth easily.

Oh sweet my foe I suffer grief untold For thee, because thy matchless charms thou hast Made ugly by a proof of avarice. So much didst thou reveal thy love of gold That thou my passion didst behind thee cast And to oblivion didst my care dismiss. Now thou art wed! Ah, this Ends all! Wed, shepherdess! I pray that Heaven Thy choice, as thou thyself wouldst wish, may bless, That for my bitterness A just reward may not to thee be given.-- But, alas! Heaven, our friend, Guerdon to virtue, stripes to ill doth send.

Here the hapless Mireno ended his song with tokens of grief so great that he inspired the same in all those who were listening to him, especially in those who knew him, and were acquainted with his virtues, gallant disposition and honourable bearing. And after there had passed between the shepherds some remarks upon the strange character of women, and chiefly upon the marriage of Silveria, who, forgetful of Mireno's love and goodness, had yielded herself to Daranio's wealth, they were desirous that Silerio should end his story, and, complete silence having been imposed, without needing to be asked, he began to continue, saying:

'The day of the dire peril, then, having come, Nisida remained half a league out of the village, in some gardens as she had agreed with me, with the pretext she gave to her parents that she was not well; and as I left her, she charged me to return quickly, with the token of the kerchief, for, according as I wore it or not, she would learn the good or ill fortune of Timbrio. I promised it to her once more, being aggrieved that she should charge me with it so often. Therewith I took leave of her and of her sister, who remained with her. And when I had come to the place of combat and the hour of beginning it had come, after the seconds of both had completed the ceremonies and warnings which are required in such a case, the two gentlemen, being set in the lists, at the dread sound of a hoarse trumpet engaged with such dexterity and skill that it caused admiration in all that saw them. But love or justice--and this is the more likely--which was favouring Timbrio, gave him such vigour that, though at the cost of some wounds, in a short space he put his adversary in such a plight, that, having him at his feet, wounded and covered with blood, he begged him to give in, if he wished to save his life. But the luckless Pransiles urged him to make an end of killing him, since it was easier for him and less hurtful to pass through a thousand deaths than to surrender; yet Timbrio's noble soul is such that he neither wished to kill his foe, nor yet that he should confess himself vanquished. He merely contented himself with his saying and acknowledging that Timbrio was as good as he; which Pransiles confessed gladly, since in this he did so little, that he might very well have said it without seeing himself in that pass. All the bystanders who heard how Timbrio had dealt with his foe, praised it and valued it highly. Scarcely had I seen my friend's happy fortune, when with incredible joy and swift speed I returned to give the news to Nisida. But woe is me! for my carelessness then has set me in my present care. Oh memory, memory mine! why had you none for what concerned me so much? But I believe it was ordained in my fortune, that the beginning of that gladness should be the end and conclusion of all my joys. I returned to see Nisida with the speed I have said, but returned without placing the white kerchief on my arm. Nisida, who, from some lofty galleries, with violent longing, was waiting and watching for my return, seeing me returning without the kerchief, thought that some sinister mishap had befallen Timbrio, and she believed it and felt it in such wise, that, without aught else contributing, all her spirits failed her, and she fell to the ground in so strange a swoon, that all counted her dead. By the time I came up, I found all her household in a turmoil, and her sister showing a thousand extremes of grief over the body of sad Nisida. When I saw her in such a state, firmly believing that she was dead, and seeing that the force of grief was drawing me out of my senses, and afraid that while bereft of them I might give or disclose some tokens of my thoughts, I went forth from the house, and slowly returned to give the luckless news to luckless Timbrio. But as the anxiety of my grief had robbed me of my strength of mind and body, my steps were not so swift but that others had been more so to carry the sad tidings to Nisida's parents, assuring them that she had been carried off by an acute paroxysm. Timbrio must needs have heard this and been in the same state as I was, if not in a worse; I can only say that when I came to where I thought to find him, the night was already somewhat advanced, and I learned from one of his seconds that he had departed for Naples with his other second by the post, with tokens of such great unhappiness as if he had issued from the combat vanquished and dishonoured. I at once fancied what it might be, and at once set myself on the way to follow him, and before I reached Naples, I had sure tidings that Nisida was not dead, but had been in a swoon which lasted four and twenty hours, at the end of which she had come to herself with many tears and sighs. With the certainty of these tidings I was consoled, and with greater joy reached Naples, thinking to find Timbrio there; but it was not so, for the gentleman with whom he had come assured me that on reaching Naples, he departed without saying anything, and that he did not know whither; only he fancied that, as he saw him sad and melancholy after the fight, he could not but think he had gone to kill himself. This was news which sent me back to my first tears, and my fortune, not even content with this, ordained that at the end of a few days Nisida's parents should come to Naples without her and without her sister, who, as I learned, and as was the common report, had both absented themselves one night, whilst coming with their parents to Naples, without any news being known of them. Thereat I was so confused that I knew not what to do with myself nor what to say to myself, and being placed in this strange confusion, I came to learn, though not very surely, that Timbrio had embarked in the port of Gaeta on a large ship bound for Spain. Thinking it might be true, I came straightway to Spain, and have looked for him in Xeres and in every place I fancied he might be, without finding any trace of him. At last I came to the city of Toledo, where all the kinsmen of Nisida's parents are, and what I succeeded in learning is that they have returned to Toledo without having learned news of their daughters. Seeing myself, then, absent from Timbrio and away from Nisida, and considering that as soon as I should find them, it must needs be to their joy and my ruin, being now wearied and disenchanted of the things of this deceitful world in which we live, I have resolved to turn my thoughts to a better pole-star, and to spend the little that remains to me of life, in the service of Him who values desires and works in the degree they deserve. And so I have chosen this garb you see, and the hermitage you have seen, where in sweet solitude I may repress my desires and direct my works to a better goal; though, as the course of the evil inclinations I have cherished till now, springs from so far back, they are not so easy to check but that they somewhat overrun the bounds, and memory returns to battle with me, representing to me the past. When I see myself in this pass, to the sound of yonder harp which I chose for companion in my solitude, I seek to lighten the heavy burden of my cares until Heaven shall take it and be minded to call me to a better life. This, shepherds, is the story of my misfortune; and if I have been long in telling it to you, it is because my misfortune has not been brief in afflicting me. What I pray you is to allow me to return to my hermitage, for, though your company is pleasing to me, I have come to the pass that nothing gives me more joy than solitude, and henceforward you will understand the life I lead and the woe I endure.'

Herewith Silerio ended his story, but not the tears with which he had ofttimes accompanied it. The shepherds consoled him for them as best they could, especially Damon and Thyrsis, who with many reasonings urged him not to lose the hope of seeing his friend Timbrio in greater happiness than he could imagine, since it was not possible but that after such evil fortune Heaven should become serene, wherefrom it might be hoped that it would not be willing for the false news of Nisida's death to come to Timbrio's knowledge save in a truer version before despair should end his days; and that, as regards Nisida it might be believed and conjectured that, on finding Timbrio absent, she had gone in search of him; and that, if fortune had then parted them by such strange accidents, it would know now how to unite them by others no less strange. All these reasonings and many others they addressed to him, consoled him somewhat, but not so as to awaken the hope of seeing himself in a life of greater happiness, nor yet did he seek it, for it seemed to him that the life he had chosen, was the one most fitting for him. A great part of the night was already passed when the shepherds agreed to rest for the little time that remained until the day, whereon the wedding of Daranio and Silveria was to be celebrated. But scarce had the white dawn left the irksome couch of her jealous spouse, when most of the shepherds of the village all left theirs, and each as best he could, for his part, began to gladden the feast. One brought green boughs to adorn the doorway of the betrothed, another with tabor and flute gave them the morning greeting. Here was heard the gladdening pipe, here sounded the tuneful rebeck, there the ancient psaltery, here the practised flageolet; one with red ribands adorned his castanets for the hoped-for dance, another polished and polished again his rustic finery to show himself gallant in the eyes of some little shepherdess his sweetheart, so that in whatever part of the village one went, all savoured of happiness, pleasure, and festivity. There was only the sad and hapless Mireno, to whom all these joys were the cause of greatest sadness. He, having gone out from the village, so as not to see performed the sacrifice of his glory, ascended a hillock which was near the village, and seating himself there at the foot of an old ash tree, placing his hand on his cheek, his bonnet pulled down to his eyes which he kept rivetted on the ground, he began to ponder the hapless plight in which he found himself, and how, without being able to prevent it, he had to see the fruit of his desires culled before his eyes; and this thought held him in such a way that he wept so tenderly and bitterly that no one could see him in such a pass without accompanying him with tears. At this moment Damon and Thyrsis, Elicio and Erastro arose, and appearing at a window which looked on to the plain, the first object on which they set eyes was the luckless Mireno, and on seeing him in the state in which he was, they knew full well the grief he was suffering; and, being moved to compassion, they determined all to go and console him, as they would have done, had not Elicio begged them to let him go alone, for he thought that, as Mireno was so great a friend of his, he would impart his grief to him more freely than to another. The shepherds consented to it, and Elicio, going there, found Mireno so beside himself and so transported in his grief that he neither recognised him nor spoke to him a word. Elicio, seeing this, beckoned to the other shepherds to come, and they, fearing that some strange accident had befallen Mireno, since Elicio called them with haste, straightway went there, and saw Mireno with eyes so fixed on the ground, and so motionless that he seemed a statue, seeing that he did not awake from his strange trance with the coming of Elicio nor with that of Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro, except that after a long while he began to say as it were between his teeth:

'Are you Silveria, Silveria? if you are, I am not Mireno, and if I am not Mireno, you are not Silveria, for it is not possible for Silveria to be without Mireno, or Mireno without Silveria. Then who am I, hapless one? or who are you, ungrateful one? Full well I know that I am not Mireno, for you have not wished to be Silveria, at least the Silveria you ought to have been and I thought you were.'

At this moment he raised his eyes, and as he saw the four shepherds round him and recognised Elicio among them, he arose and without ceasing his bitter plaint, threw his arms round his neck, saying to him:

'Ah, my true friend, now indeed you will have no cause to envy my state, as you envied it when you saw me favoured by Silveria; for, if you called me happy then, you can call me hapless now, and change all the glad names you gave me then, into the grievous ones you now can give me. I indeed will be able to call you happy, Elicio, since you are more consoled by the hope you have of being loved than afflicted by the real fear of being forgotten.'

'You make me perplexed, oh Mireno,' answered Elicio, 'to see the extreme grief you display at what Silveria has done, when you know that she has parents whom it was right to have obeyed.'

'If she felt love,' replied Mireno, 'duty to parents were small hindrance to keep her from fulfilling what she owed to love. Whence I come to think, oh Elicio, that if she loved me well, she did ill to marry, and if the love she used to show me was feigned, she did worse in deceiving me and in offering to undeceive me at a time when it cannot avail me save by leaving my life in her hands.'

'Your life, Mireno,' replied Elicio, 'is not in such a pass that for cure you have to end it, since it might be that the change in Silveria was not in her will, but in the constraint of obedience to her parents; and, if you loved her purely and honourably when a maid, you can also love her now that she is wed, she responding now as then to your good and honourable desires.'

'Little do you know Silveria, Elicio,' answered Mireno, 'since you imagine of her that she is likely to do aught that might make her notorious.'

'This very argument you have used, condemns you,' replied Elicio, 'since, if you, Mireno, know of Silveria that she will not do anything which may be hurtful to her, she cannot have erred in what she has done.'

'If she has not erred,' answered Mireno, 'she has succeeded in robbing me of all the fair issue I hoped from my fair thoughts; and only in this do I blame her that she never warned me of this blow, nay rather, when I had fears of it, she assured me with a firm oath that they were fancies of mine, and that it had never entered her fancy to think of marrying Daranio, nor, if she could not marry me, would she marry him nor anyone else, though she were thereby to risk remaining in perpetual disgrace with her parents and kinsmen; and under this assurance and promise now to fail in and break her faith in the way you have seen--what reason is there that would consent to such a thing, or what heart that would suffer it?'

Here Mireno once more renewed his plaint and here again the shepherds had pity for him. At this moment two youths came up to where they were; one of them was Mireno's kinsman, the other a servant of Daranio's who came to summon Elicio, Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro, for the festivities of his marriage were about to begin. It grieved the shepherds to leave Mireno alone, but the shepherd his kinsman offered to remain with him, and indeed Mireno told Elicio that he wished to go away from that region, so as not to see every day before his eyes the cause of his misfortune. Elicio praised his resolve and charged him, wherever he might be, to inform him how it went with him. Mireno so promised him; and drawing from his bosom a paper, he begged him to give it to Silveria on finding an opportunity. Therewith he took leave of all the shepherds, not without token of much grief and sadness. He had not gone far from their presence, when Elicio, desirous of learning what was in the paper, seeing that, since it was open, it mattered but little if he read it, unfolded it, and inviting the other shepherds to listen to him, saw that in it were written these verses:

MIRENO TO SILVERIA.

He who once gave unto thee Most of all he did possess, Unto thee now, shepherdess, Sends what remnant there may be; Even this poor paper where Clearly written he hath shown The faith that from thee hath gone, What remains with him, despair.

But perchance it doth avail Little that I tell thee this, If my faith bring me no bliss, And my woe to please thee fail; Think not that I seek to mourn, To complain that thou dost leave me; 'Tis too late that I should grieve me For my early love forlorn.

Time was when thou fain wouldst hear All my tale of misery; If a tear were in my eye, Thou therewith wouldst shed a tear: Then Mireno was in truth He on whom thine eyes were set, Changed thou art and dost forget, All the joyous time of youth!

Did that error but endure, Tempered were my bitter sadness; Fancied joy brings greater gladness Than a loss well known and sure. But 'twas thou that didst ordain My misfortune and distress, Making by thy fickleness False my bliss and sure my pain.

From thy words so full of lies And my ears that, weak, believed, Fancied joys have I received, And undoubted miseries. Seeming pleasures once me crowned With the buoyancy of youth, But the evils in their truth To my sorrow do redound.

Hence I judge and know full well, And it cannot be denied, That its glory and its pride Love hath at the gates of hell; Whoso doth not set his gaze Upon Love, from joy to pain By oblivion and disdain Is brought in a moment's space.

With such swiftness thou hast wrought This mysterious transformation, That already desperation And not gain becomes my lot; For methinks 'twas yesterday Thou didst love me, or didst feign Love at least, for this is plain, What I must believe to-day.

Still thy pleasing voice I hear Uttering sweet and witty things, Still thy loving reasonings Are resounding in my ear; But these memories at last, Though they please, yet torture more, Since away the breezes bore Words and works adown the blast.

Wert thou she who in her pride Swore her days on earth should end, If she did not love her friend More than all she loved beside? Wert thou she who to me showed How she loved with such good-will, That, although I was her ill, She did hold me for her good?

Oh if but I could thee hate As thou hatest me, thy name Would I brand with fitting shame, Since thou'rt thankless and ingrate; Yet it useless is for me Thus to hate thee and disdain, Love to me is greater gain Than forgetfulness to thee.

To my singing sad lament, To my springtime winter's snow, To my laughter bitter woe Thy relentless hand hath sent It has changed my joyous dress To the garb of those that mourn, Love's soft flower to poignant thorn, Love's sweet fruit to bitterness.

Thou wilt say--thereat I bleed-- That thy marriage to this swain, Thy forgetfulness again, Is a noble honest deed; If it were not known to thee That in thy betrothal hour My life ended evermore, Then I might admit thy plea.

But thy pleasure in a word Pleasure was; but 'twas not just, Since my faith and loyal trust Did but earn unjust reward; For my faith, since it doth see How to show its faithfulness, Wanes not through thy fickleness, Faints not through my misery.

None will wonder--surely no man, When he comes to know the truth, Seeing that I am a youth, And, Silveria, thou art woman; Ever in her, we believe, Hath its home inconstancy; Second nature 'tis to me Thus to suffer and to grieve.

Thee a wedded bride I view Now repentant, making moan, For it is a fact well known That thou wilt in naught be true; Gladly seek the yoke to bear That thou on thy neck didst cast, For thou may'st it hate at last, But for ever 'twill be there.

Yet so fickle is thy state, And thy mood is so severe, That what yesterday was dear Thou must needs to-morrow hate; Hence in some mysterious way, 'Lovely 'midst her fickleness, Fickle 'midst her loveliness,' He who speaks of thee will say.

The shepherds did not think ill of Mireno's verses, but of the occasion for which they had been made, considering with what rapidity Silveria's fickleness had brought him to the pass of abandoning his beloved country and dear friends, each one fearful lest, as the result of his suit, the same thing might happen to him. Then, after they had entered the village and come to where Daranio and Silveria were, the festivities began with as much joy and merriment as had been seen for a long time on the banks of the Tagus; for, as Daranio was one of the richest shepherds of all that district, and Silveria one of the fairest shepherdesses of all the river-side, all or most of the shepherds of those parts assisted at their wedding. And so there was a fine gathering of discreet shepherds and fair shepherdesses, and amongst those who excelled the rest in many different qualities were the sad Orompo, the jealous Orfenio, the absent Crisio, and the love-lorn Marsilio, all youths and all in love, though oppressed by different passions, for sad Orompo was tormented by the untimely death of his beloved Listea, jealous Orfenio by the unbearable rage of jealousy, being in love with the fair shepherdess Eandra, absent Crisio by seeing himself parted from Claraura, a fair and discreet shepherdess, whom he counted his only joy, and despairing Marsilio by the hatred against him existing in Belisa's breast. They were all friends and from the same village; each was not ignorant of the other's love, but, on the contrary, in mournful rivalry they had ofttimes come together, each to extol the cause of his torment, seeking each one to show, as best he could, that his grief exceeded every other, counting it the highest glory to be superior in pain; and all had such wit, or, to express it better, suffered such grief, that, however they might indicate it, they showed it was the greatest that could be imagined. Through these disputes and rivalries they were famous and renowned on all the banks of the Tagus, and had caused in Thyrsis and Damon desire to know them; and, seeing them there together, they offered one another courteous and pleasing greetings, all especially regarding with admiration the two shepherds Thyrsis and Damon, up till then only known to them by repute. At this moment came the rich shepherd Daranio, dressed in mountain garb; he wore a high-necked smock with pleated collar, a frieze vest, a green coat cut low at the neck, breeches of fine linen, blue gaiters, round shoes, a studded belt, and a quartered bonnet the colour of the coat. No less finely adorned came forth his bride Silveria, for she came with skirt and bodice of fawn, bordered with white satin, a tucker worked with blue and green, a neckerchief of yellow thread sprinkled with silver embroidery, the contrivance of Galatea and Florisa, who dressed her, a turquoise-coloured coif with fringes of red silk, gilded pattens of cork, dainty close-fitting shoes, rich corals, a ring of gold, and above all her beauty, which adorned her more than all. After her came the peerless Galatea, like the sun after the dawn, and her friend Florisa, with many other fair shepherdesses, who had come to the wedding to honour it; and amongst them, too, came Teolinda, taking care to conceal her face from the eyes of Damon and Thyrsis, so as not to be recognised by them. And straightway the shepherdesses, following the shepherds their guides, to the sound of many rustic instruments, made their way to the temple, during which time Elicio and Erastro found time to feast their eyes on Galatea's fair countenance, desiring that that way might last longer than the long wandering of Ulysses. And, at the joy of seeing her, Erastro was so beside himself, that addressing Elicio he said to him:

'What are you looking at, shepherd, if you are not looking at Galatea? But how will you be able to look at the sun of her locks, the heaven of her brow, the stars of her eyes, the snow of her countenance, the crimson of her cheeks, the colour of her lips, the ivory of her teeth, the crystal of her neck, and the marble of her breast?'

'All this have I been able to see, oh Erastro,' replied Elicio, 'and naught of all you have said is the cause of my torment, but it is the hardness of her disposition, for if it were not such as you know, all the graces and beauties you recognise in Galatea would be the occasion of our greater glory.'

'You say well,' said Erastro; 'but yet you will not be able to deny to me, that if Galatea were not so fair, she would not be so desired, and if she were not so desired, our pain would not be so great, since it all springs from desire.'

'I cannot deny to you, Erastro,' replied Elicio, 'that all grief and sorrow whatsoever springs from the want and lack of that which we desire; but at the same time I wish to tell you that the quality of the love with which I thought you loved Galatea has fallen greatly in my estimation, for if you merely love her because she is fair, she has very little to thank you for, since there will be no man, however rustic he be, who sees her but desires her, for beauty, wherever it be, carries with it the power of creating desire. Thus no reward is due to this simple desire, because it is so natural, for if it were due, by merely desiring Heaven, we would have deserved it. But you see already, Erastro, that the opposite is so much the case, as our true law has shown to us; and granted that beauty and loveliness are a principal factor in attracting us to desire them and to seek to enjoy them, he who would be a true lover must not count such enjoyment his highest good; but rather, though beauty causes this desire in him, he must love the one only because the desire is honourable, without any other interest moving him, and this can be called, even in things of this life, perfect and true love, and is worthy of gratitude and reward. Just as we see that the Maker of all things openly and fittingly rewards those who, not being moved by any other interest, whether of fear, pain, or hope of glory, love Him, worship Him, and serve Him only because he is good and worthy of being worshipped; and this is the last and greatest perfection contained in divine love, and in human love, too, when one does not love except because what one loves is good, without there being an error of judgment, for ofttimes the bad seems to us good, and the good bad, and so we love the one and abhor the other, and such love as this does not deserve reward but punishment. I wish to imply from all I have said, oh Erastro, that if you love and worship Galatea's beauty with intent to enjoy it, and the goal of your desire stops at this point without passing on to love her virtue, her increase of fame, her welfare, her life and prosperity, know that you do not love as you ought, nor ought you to be rewarded as you wish.'

Erastro would fain have replied to Elicio, and given him to understand that he did not understand rightly concerning the love with which he loved Galatea; but this was prevented by the sound of the pipe of loveless Lenio, who also wished to be present at Daranio's wedding, and to gladden the festivities with his song; and so setting himself in front of the betrothed pair, whilst they were going to the temple, to the sound of Eugenio's rebeck he went singing these verses:

LENIO. Unknown, ungrateful Love, that dost appal At times the gallant hearts of all our race, And with vain shapes and shades fantastical In the free soul dost countless fetters place, If, proud of godhead, thou thyself dost call By such a lofty name, spurn in disgrace Him, who, surrendered to the marriage tie, To a new noose would yield his fantasy.

Strive thou that pure and spotless evermore The law of holy wedlock may remain, Turn thou thy mind thereto with all thy power, Unfurl thy banner on this fair champaign, See what sweet fruit he hopes, what lovely flower, For little toil, who doth himself constrain To bear this yoke, as duty bids and right; For, though a burden, 'tis a burden light.

Thou canst, if thou no more rememberest Thy misdeeds and thy peevish character, Make glad the marriage bed, the happy nest, Wherein the nuptial yoke unites the pair; Set thyself in their soul, and in their breast Until their life have ended its career, Then may they go (and to this hope we cling) To enjoy the pleasures of the eternal spring.

Do thou the shepherd's tiny cot pass by, To do his duty leave the shepherd free, Fly higher yet, since thou so high dost fly, Seek for a better pastime, nobler be: To make of souls a sacrifice on high Thou toilest and dost watch;--'tis vanity, If thou dost bring them not with better mind To the sweet union Hymen hath designed.

The mighty hand of thy amazing might Thou canst herein to all the world display, Making the tender bride in love delight, And by her bridegroom be beloved alway; The infernal jealous madness that doth blight Their peace and comfort, thou canst drive away; Suffer not scornful harsh disdain to keep Far from their eyelids sweet refreshing sleep.

But if the prayers of him who was thy friend Have never, traitorous Love, been heard by thee, To these of mine thou wilt no hearing lend, For I thy foe am, and shall ever be; Thy character, thy works of evil end, Whereof is witness all humanity, Lead me to expect not from thy hand a wealth Of peace or fortune, happiness or health.

Already those who listened to the loveless Lenio as they went along were wondering at seeing with what meekness he was treating the things of Love, calling him a god, and of a mighty hand--a thing they had never heard him say. But having heard the verses with which he ended his song, they could not refrain from laughter, for it already seemed to them that he was getting angry as he went on, and that if he proceeded further in his song, he would deal with love as he was wont at other times; but time failed him, for the way was at an end. And so, when they had come to the temple, and the usual ceremonies had been performed therein by the priests, Daranio and Silveria remained bound in a tight and perpetual knot, not without the envy of many who saw them, nor without the grief of some who coveted Silveria's beauty. But every grief would have been surpassed by that which the hapless Mireno would have felt, had he been present at this spectacle. The wedded pair having returned from the temple with the same company that had escorted them, came to the village square, where they found the tables set, and where Daranio wished publicly to make a demonstration of his wealth, offering to all the people a liberal and sumptuous feast. The square was so covered with branches, that it seemed a lovely green forest, the branches interwoven above in such wise that the sun's keen rays in all that compass found no entry to warm the cool ground, which was covered with many sword-lilies and a great diversity of flowers. There, then, to the general content of all was celebrated the liberal banquet, to the sound of many pastoral instruments, which gave no less pleasure than is wont to be given by the bands playing in harmony usual in royal palaces; but that which most exalted the feast was to see, that, on removing the tables, they made with much speed in the same place a stage, because the four discreet and hapless shepherds, Orompo, Marsilio, Crisio, and Orfenio, so as to honour their friend Daranio's wedding, and to satisfy the desire Thyrsis and Damon had to hear them, wished there in public to recite an eclogue, which they themselves had composed on the occasion of their own griefs. All the shepherds and shepherdesses who were there being then arranged in their seats, after that Erastro's pipe, and Lenio's lyre and the other instruments made those present keep peaceful and marvellous silence, the first who showed himself in the humble theatre was the sad Orompo, clad in black skin-coat, and a crook of yellow box-wood in his hand, the end of which was an ugly figure of Death. He came crowned with leaves of mournful cypress, all emblems of grief which reigned in him by reason of the untimely death of his beloved Listea; and after he had, with sad look, turned his weeping eyes in all directions, with tokens of infinite grief and bitterness he broke the silence with words like these:

OROMPO. Come from the depths of my grief-stricken breast, Oh words of blood, with death commingled come, Break open the left side that keeps you dumb, If 'tis my sighs perchance that hold you fast. The air impedes you, for 'tis fired at last By the fierce poison of your utterance; Come forth and let the breezes bear you hence, As they have borne my bliss adown the blast.

For ye will lose but little when ye see Yourselves lost, since your lofty theme has gone, For whom in weighty style and perfect tone Utterance ye gave to things of high degree. Famed were ye once, of high renown were ye, For sweetness, and for wittiness and gladness; But now for bitterness, for tears and sadness, Will ye by Heaven and earth appraisèd be.

Although ye issue trembling at my cry With what words can ye utter what I feel, If my fierce torment is incapable Of being as 'tis painted vividly? Alas, for neither means nor time have I To express the pain and sinking at my heart; But what my tongue doth lack to tell its smart, My eyes by constant weeping may supply.

Oh death, who cuttest short by cruel guile A thousand pleasant purposes of man, And in a moment turnest hill to plain, Making Henares equal unto Nile, Why didst thou temper not thy cruel style, Traitor, and why didst thou, in my despite, Make trial on a bosom fair and white Of thy fierce hanger's edge with fury vile?

How came it that the green and tender years Of that fair lamb did, false one, thee displease? Wherefore didst thou my woes by hers increase? Why didst thou show thyself to her so fierce? Enemy mine, friend of deceitful cares, Goest thou from me who seek thee, and concealest Thyself from me, while thou thyself revealest To him who more than I thy evils fears?

On riper years thy law tyrannical Might well its giant vigour have displayed, Nor dealt its cruel blow against a maid, Who hath of living had enjoyment small; But yet thy sickle which arrangeth all-- By no prayer turned aside nor word of power-- Moweth with ruthless blade the tender flower E'en as the knotty reed, stalwart and tall.

When thou Listea from the world away Didst take, thy nature and thy strength, thy worth, Thy spirit, wrath and lordship to the earth Thou didst by that proud deed alone display. All that the earth possesseth fair and gay, Graceful and witty, thou didst likewise doom, When thou didst doom Listea; in her tomb Thou didst with her this wealth of blisses lay.

My painful life grows longer, and its weight I can no more upon my shoulders bear, For without her I am in darkness drear; His life is death who is not fortunate. I have no hope in fortune nor in fate, I have no hope in time, no hope in Heaven; I may not hope for solace to be given, Nor yet for good where evil is so great.

Oh ye who feel what sorrow is, come, find In mine your consolation, when ye see Its strength, its vigour and alacrity; Then ye will see how far yours falls behind. Where are ye now, shepherds graceful and kind, Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio? What Do ye? Why come ye not? Why count ye not Mine greater far than troubles of your mind?

But who is this who cometh into sight, Emerging at the crossing of yon path? Marsilio 'tis, whom Love as prisoner hath, The cause Belisa, her praise his delight. The fierce snake of disdain with cruel bite His soul doth ever gnaw and eke his breast, He spends his life in torment without rest, And yet not his but mine the blacker plight.

He thinks the ill that makes his soul complain Is greater than the sorrow of my woe. Within this thicket 'twill be well to go, That I may see if he perchance complain. Alas! to think to match it with the pain That never leaves me is but vanity. The road mine opens that to ill draws nigh, Closing the pathway that doth bliss attain.

MARSILIO. Oh steps that by steps bring Me to death's agonies I am constrained to blame your tardiness! Unto the sweet lot cling, For in your swiftness lies My bliss, and in such hour of bitterness. Behold, me to distress, The hardness of my foe Within her angry breast, Hostile unto my rest, Doth ever do what it was wont to do, And therefore let us flee, If but we can, from her dread cruelty.

To what clime shall I go, Or to what land unknown To make my dwelling there, that I may be Safe from tormenting woe, From sad and certain moan, Which shall not end till it hath ended me? Whether I stay or flee To Libya's sandy plains Or to the dwelling-place Of Scythia's savage race, One thing alone doth mitigate my pain; That a contented mind I do not in a change of dwelling find.

It wins me everywhere, The rigorous disdain Of her that hath no peer, my cruel foe, And yet an issue fair 'Tis not for me to gain From Love or hope amidst such cruel woe. Belisa, daylight's glow, Thou glory of our age, If prayers of a friend Have power thy will to bend, Temper of thy right hand the ruthless rage! The fire my breast doth hold, May it have power in thine to melt the cold.

Yet deaf unto my cry, Ruthless and merciless, As to the wearied mariner's appeal The tempest raging by That stirs the angry sea, Threatening to life the doom unspeakable, Adamant, marble, steel, And rugged Alpine brow, The sturdy holm-oak old, The oak that to the cold North wind its lofty crest doth never bow, All gentle are and kind Compared unto the wrath in thee we find.

My hard and bitter fate, My unrelenting star, My will that bears it all and suffereth, This doom did promulgate, Thankless Belisa fair, That I should serve and love thee e'en in death Though thy brow threateneth With ruthless, angry frown, And though thine eyes so clear A thousand woes declare, Yet mistress of this soul I shall thee crown,

Until a mortal veil Of flesh no more on earth my soul conceal.

Can there be good that vies With my tormenting ill, Can any earthly ill such anguish give? For each of them doth rise Far beyond human skill, And without her in living death I live, In disdain I revive My faith, and there 'tis found Burnt with the chilly cold. What vanity behold, The unwonted sorrow that my soul doth wound! Can it be equal, see, Unto the ill that fain would greater be?

But who is he who stirs The interwoven boughs Of this round-crested myrtle, thick and green?

OROMPO. A shepherd who avers, Reasoning from his woes, Founding his words upon the truth therein, That it must needs be seen His sorrow doth surpass The sorrow thou dost feel, The higher thou mayst raise it, Exalt it, and appraise it.

MARS. Conquered wilt thou remain in such a deal, Orompo, friend so true. And thou thyself shalt witness be thereto. If of my agonies, If of my maddening ill, The very smallest part thou didst but know, Thy vanities would cease, For thou wouldst see that still My sufferings all are true, and thine but show.

OROMPO. Deem thy mysterious woe A phantom of the mind, Than mine, that doth distress My life, reckon thine less, For I will save thee from thine error blind, And the dear truth reveal, That thy ill is a shadow, mine is real. But, lo! the voice I hear Of Crisio, sounding plain. A shepherd he, whose views with thine agree, To him let us give ear, For his distressful pain Maketh him swell with pride, as thine doth thee.

MARS. To-day time offers me Place and occasion where I can display to both And prove to you the truth That only I misfortune know and care.

OROMPO. Marsilio, now attend Unto the voice and sad theme of thy friend.

CRISIO. Ah! hard oppressive absence, sad and drear, How far must he have been from knowing thee, Who did thy force and violence compare To death's invincible supremacy! For when death doth pronounce his doom severe, What then can he do more, so weak is he, That to undo the knot and stoutest tether That holdeth soul and body firm together?

Thy cruel sword to greater ill extends, Since into two one spirit it doth part. Love's miracles, which no man understands, Nor are attained by learning or by art. Oh let my soul with one who understands, There leave its half, and bring the weaker part Hither, whereby more ill I on me lay, Than if from life I were far, far away!

Away am I from yonder eyes so fair, Which calmed my torment in my hour of need, Eyes, life of him who could behold them clear, If they the fancy did not further lead; For to behold and think of merit there Is but a foolish, daring, reckless deed, I see them not, I saw them to my wrong, And now I perish, for to see I long.

Longing have I, and rightly, to behold-- The term of my distress to abbreviate-- This friendship rent in twain which hath of old United soul to flesh with love so great, That from the frame set free which doth it hold, With ready speed and wondrous flight elate, It will be able to behold again Those eyes, relief and glory to its pain.

Pain is the payment and the recompense That Love doth to the absent lover give; Herein is summed all suffering and offence, That in Love's sufferings we do perceive; Neither to use discretion for defence, Nor in the fire of loyal love to live With thoughts exalted, doth avail to assuage This torment's cruel pain and violent rage.

Raging and violent is this cruel distress, And yet withal so long doth it endure, That, ere it endeth, endeth steadfastness, And even life's career, wretched and poor; Death, jealousy, disdain, and fickleness, An unkind, angry heart, do not assure Such torment, nor inflict wounds so severe, As doth this ill, whose very name is fear.

Fearful it were, did not a grief, so fierce As this, produce in me such mortal grief; And yet it is not mortal, since my years End not, though I am absent from my life; But I'll no more my woeful song rehearse, For to such swains, in charm and wisdom chief, As those I see before me, 'twill be right That I should show to see them more delight.

OROMPO. Delight thy presence gives us, Crisio friend, And more, because thou comest at an hour, When we our ancient difference may end.

CRISIO. If it delights thee, come, let us once more Begin, for in Marsilio of our strife A righteous judge we have to plead before.

MARS. Clearly ye show and prove your error rife, Wherewith ye twain are so besotted, drawn By the vain fancy that rules o'er your life,

Since ye wish that the sorrows ye bemoan, Although so small, should be to mine preferred, Bewailed enough, and yet so little known.

But that it may by earth and Heaven be heard, How far your sorrows fall below the pain That hath my soul beset and hope deferred,

I will the least my bosom doth contain, Put forth, with all the feeble wit I have-- Methinks the victory in your strife I'll gain--

And unto you I shall the verdict leave, To judge my ill whether it harroweth More than the absence which doth Crisio grieve,

Or than the dread and bitter ill of death; For each of you doth heedless make his plaint, Bitter and brief he calls the lot he hath.

OROMPO. Thereat I feel, Marsilio, much content, Because the reason I have on my side, Hath to my anguish hope of triumph sent.

CRISIO. Although the skill is unto me denied To exaggerate, when I my grief proclaim, Ye will behold how yours are set aside.

MARS. Unto the deathless hardness of my dame What absence reaches? Though so hard is she, Mistress of beauty her the world acclaim.

OROMPO. At what a happy hour and juncture see, Orfenio comes in sight! Be ye intent, And ye will hear him weigh his misery.

'Tis jealousy that doth his soul torment, A very knife is jealousy, the sure Disturber of Love's peace and Love's content.

CRISIO. Hearken, he sings the griefs he doth endure.

ORFENIO. Oh gloomy shadow, thou that followest My sorrowing and confused fancy still, Thou darkness irksome, thou that, cold and chill, Hast ever my content and light oppressed.

When will it be that thou thy bitterest Wrath wilt assuage, cruel monster, harpy fell? What dost thou gain to make my joy a hell? What bliss, that thou my bliss dost from me wrest?

But if the mood thou dost upon thee take, Leadeth thee on to seek his life to steal, Who life and being unto thee did give,

Methinks I should not wonder thou dost wreak Thy will upon me, and upon my weal, But that despite my woes, I yet do live.

OROMPO. If the delightful mead Is pleasant to thee as 'twas wont to be In times that now are dead, Come hither; thou art free To spend the day in our sad company.

He that is sad agrees Easily with the sad, as thou must know; Come hither, here one flees, Beside this clear spring's flow, The sun's bright rays that high in heaven glow.

Come and thyself defend, As is thy custom, raise thy wonted strain, Against each sorrowing friend. For each doth strive amain To show that his alone is truly pain.

I only in the strife Must needs opponent be to each and all, The sorrow of my life I can indeed extol, But cannot give expression to the whole.

ORFENIO. The luscious grassy sward Is not unto the hungry lamb so sweet, Nor health once more restored Doth he so gladly greet Who had already held its loss complete,

As pleasant 'tis for me In the contest that is at hand to show That the cruel misery My suffering heart doth know Is far above the greatest here below.

Orompo, speak no word Of thy great ill, Crisio, thy grief contain, Let naught from thee be heard, Marsilio; death, disdain, Absence, seek not to rival jealous pain.

But if Heaven so desires That we to-day should seek the battle-field, Begin, whoso aspires, And of his sorrow yield Token with all the skill his tongue can wield.

A truthful history In the pure truth doth find its resting-place. For it can never be, That elegance and grace Of speech can form its substance and its base.

CRISIO. Shepherd, in this great arrogance I feel Thou wilt reveal the folly of thy life When in this strife of passions we engage.

ORFENIO. Thy pride assuage or show it in its hour, Thine anguish sore is but a pastime, friend, The souls that bend in grief, because they go Away, their woe must needs exaggerate.

CRISIO. So strange and great the torment is I moan, That thou full soon thyself, I trust, wilt say That nothing may with my fatigues compare.

MARS. An evil star shone on me from my birth.

OROMPO. Ere yet on earth I came, methinks e'en then Misfortune, pain, and misery, were mine.

ORFENIO. In me divine the greatest of ill-fortune.

CRISIO. Thy ill is fortune, when to mine compared.

MARS. When it is paired with my mysterious ill, The wound that kills you is but glory plain.

OROMPO. This tangled skein will soon be very clear, When bright and clear my grief it doth reveal. Let none conceal the pain his breast within, For I the tale of mine do now begin.

In good ground my hopes were sown, Goodly fruit they promised then, But when their desire was known, And their willingness was shown, Heaven changed their fruit to pain. I beheld their wondrous flower, Eager happiness to shower On me--thousand proofs it gave-- Death that envious did it crave Plucked it in that very hour.

Like the labourer was I, Who doth toil without relief And with lingering energy, Winning from his destiny But the bitter fruit of grief: Destiny doth take away All hope of a better day, For the Heaven that to him brings Confidence of better things It beneath the earth did lay.

If to this pass I attain, That e'en now I live, despairing Whether I shall glory gain. Since I suffer beyond bearing, 'Tis a certain truth and plain: That amidst the darkest gloom Hope assures that there shall come Yet a happier, brighter dawn. Woe for him, whose hope is gone, Buried in the hopeless tomb.

MARS. From mine eyes the tear-drops fall On a spot where many a thorn, Many a bramble, hath been born To my hurt, for, once and all, They my loving heart have torn: I am luckless, yes, 'tis I, Though my cheeks were never dry For a moment in my grief, Yet nor fruit, nor flower, nor leaf, Have I won, howe'er I try.

For my bosom would be stilled, If I might a token see Of some gain, small though it be; Though it never were fulfilled, I should win felicity: For the worth I should behold Of my fond persistence bold Over her who doth so scorn, That she at my chill doth burn, At my fire is chilly cold.

But if all the toil is vain Of my mourning and my sigh, And I still cease not my cry, With my more than human pain What on earth can hope to vie? Dead the cause is of thy grief, This, Orompo, brings relief, And thy sorrow doth suppress; But when my grief most doth press On me, 'tis beyond belief.

CRISIO. Once the fruit that was the dower Of my ceaseless adoration I held in its ripest hour; Ere I tasted it, occasion Came and snatched it from my power: I above the rest the name Of unfortunate can claim, Since to suffering I shall come, For no longer lies my doom Where I left my soul aflame.

When death robs us of our bliss, We for ever from it part, And we find relief in this. Time can soften e'en the heart Hard and firm against Love's cries. But in absence we the pain Of death, jealousy, disdain, Feel with ne'er a glimpse of gladness,-- Strange it is--hence fear and sadness With the absent one remain.

When the hope at hand is near, And the accomplishment delays, Harder is the pain we bear, And affliction reacheth where Hope doth never lift its gaze; In the lesser pangs ye feel 'Tis the remedy of your ill Not to hope for remedy, But this solace faileth me, For the pangs of absence kill.

ORFENIO. Lo, the fruit that had been sown By my toil that had no end, When to sweetness it had grown, Was by destiny my friend Given to me for my own. Scarce to this unheard of pass Could I come, when I, alas! Came the bitter truth to know, That I should but grief and woe From that happiness amass.

In my hand the fruit I hold, And to hold it wearies me, For amidst my woes untold In the largest ear I see A worm gnawing, fierce and bold; I abhor what I adore, And that which doth life restore Brings death; for myself I shape Winding mazes, whence escape Is denied for evermore.

In my loss for death I sigh, For 'tis life unto my woe. In the truth I find a lie, Greater doth the evil grow Whether I be far or nigh; No hope is there that is sure Such an ill as this to cure; Whether I remain or go, Of this living death the woe I must evermore endure.

OROMPO. 'Tis sure an error clear To argue that the loss which death hath sent Since it extends so far, Doth bring in part content, Because it takes away The hope that fosters grief and makes it stay.

If of the glory dead The memory that doth disturb our peace Forever shall have fled, The sorrow doth decrease, Which at its loss we feel, Since we can hope no more to keep it still.

But if the memory stays, The memory of the bliss already fled Doth live the more and blaze Than when possessed indeed; Who doubteth that this pain Doth more than others untold miseries gain?

MARS. If it should be the chance Of a poor traveller by some unknown way To find at his advance Fleeing at close of day The inn of his desire, The inn for which he doth in vain aspire,

Doubtless he will remain Dazed by the fear the dark and silent night Inspires, and yet again Hapless will be his plight, If dawn comes not, for Heaven To him hath not its gladdening radiance given.

The traveller am I, I journey on to reach a happy inn; Whene'er I think that nigh I come to enter in, Then, like a fleeting shadow, Bliss flees away, and grief doth overshadow.

CRISIO. E'en as the torrent deep Is wont the traveller's weary steps to hold, And doth the traveller keep 'Midst wind and snow and cold, And, just a little space Beyond, the inn appears before his face,

E'en so my happiness Is by this painful tedious absence stayed; To comfort my distress 'Tis ever sore afraid, And yet before mine eyes I see the healer of my miseries.

And thus to see so near The cure of my distress afflicts me sore, And makes it greater far, Because my bliss before My hand doth further flee For some strange cause, the nearer 'tis to me.

ORFENIO. I saw before mine eyes A noble inn, that did in bliss abound, I triumphed in my prize, Too soon, alas, I found That vile it had become, Changed by my fate to darkness and to gloom.

There, where we ever see The bliss of those who love each other well, There is my misery; There where is wont to dwell All bliss, is evil plain, United in alliance with disdain.

In this abode I lie-- And never do I strive to issue hence-- Built by my agony, And with so strange a fence, Methinks they to the ground Bring it, who love, see, and resist its wound.

OROMPO. Sooner the path that is his own, the sun Shall end, whereon he wanders through the sky After he hath through all the Zodiac run,

Than we the least part of our agony According to our pain can well declare, However much we raise our speech on high.

He who lives absent dies, says Crisio there, But I, that I am dead, since to the reign Of death fate handed o'er my life's career.

And boldly thou, Marsilio, dost maintain That thou of joy and bliss hast lost all chance, Since that which slayeth thee is fierce disdain.

Unto this thought thou givest utterance, Orfenio, that 'tis through thy soul doth pass, Not through thy breast alone, the jealous lance.

As each the woes through which his fellows pass Feels not, he praiseth but the grief he knows, Thinking it doth his fellows' pangs surpass.

Wherefore his bank rich Tagus overflows, Swollen by our strife of tears and mournfulness, Wherein with piteous words we moan our woes.

Our pain doth not thereby become the less, Rather because we handle so the wound, It doth condemn us to the more distress.

We must our plaints renew with all the sound Our tongues can utter, and with all the thought That can within our intellects be found.

Then let us cease our disputation, taught That every ill doth anguish bring and pain, Nor is there good with sure contentment fraught.

Sufficient ill he hath that doth constrain His life within the confines of a tomb, And doth in bitter loneliness remain,

Unhappy he--and mournful is his doom-- Who suffereth the pangs of jealousy, In whom nor strength nor judgment findeth room,

And he, who spends his days in misery, By the cruel power of absence long oppressed, Patience his only staff, weak though it be;

Nor doth the eager lover suffer least Who feels, when most he burns, his lady's power, By her hard heart and coldness sore distressed.

CRISIO. His bidding let us do, for lo, the hour E'en now with rapid flight comes on apace, When we our herds must needs collect once more.

And while unto the wonted sheltering-place We go, and whilst the radiant sun to rest Sinketh and from the meadow hides his face,

With bitter voice and mourning manifest, Making the while harmonious melody, Sing we the grief that hath our souls oppressed.

MARS. Begin then, Crisio, may thine accents fly With speed unto Claraura's ears once more, Borne gently by the winds that hasten by, As unto one who doth their grief restore.

CRISIO. Whoso from the grievous cup Of dread absence comes to drink, Hath no ill from which to shrink, Nor yet good for which to hope.

In this bitter misery Every evil is contained: Fear lest we should be disdained, Of our rivals' jealousy.

Whoso shall with absence cope, Straightway will he come to think That from no ill can he shrink, Nor for any good can hope.

OROMPO. True 'tis ill that makes me sigh More than any death I know, Since life findeth cause of woe In that death doth pass it by.

For when death did take away All my glory and content, That it might the more torment, It allowed my life to stay.

Evil comes, and hastily With such swiftness good doth go, That life findeth cause of woe In that death doth pass it by.

MARS. In my dread and grievous woe Now are wanting to my eyes Tears, and breath unto my sighs, Should my troubles greater grow,

For ingratitude, disdain, Hold me in their toils so fast That from death I hope at last Longer life and greater gain.

Little can it linger now, Since are wanting to my eyes Tears, and breath unto my sighs, Should my troubles greater grow.

ORFENIO. If it could, my joy should be Truly all things else above: If but jealousy were love, And if love were jealousy.

From this transformation I So much bliss and pride should gain That of love I would attain To the palm and victory.

If 'twere so, then jealousy Would so much my champion prove, That, if jealousy were love, Nothing I save love should be.

With this last song of the jealous Orfenio, the discreet shepherds made an end of their eclogue, leaving all who had heard them satisfied with their discretion: especially Damon and Thyrsis, who felt great pleasure at hearing them, for it seemed to them that the reasonings and arguments which the four shepherds had propounded to carry through their proposition, seemed of more than shepherd wit. But a contest having arisen between many of the bystanders as to which of the four had pleaded his cause best, at last the opinion of all came to agree with that which discreet Damon gave, saying to them that he for his part held that, among all the distasteful and unpleasing things that love brings with it, nothing so much distresses the loving breast as the incurable plague of jealousy, and neither Orompo's loss, nor Crisio's absence, nor Marsilio's despair could be equalled to it.

'The cause is,' he said, 'that it is not in reason that things which have become impossible of attainment should be able for long to compel the will to love them, or weary the desire to attain them; for when a man has the will and desire to attain the impossible, it is clear that the more desire is excessive in him, the more he would lack understanding. And for this same reason I say that the pain Orompo suffers is but grief and pity for a lost happiness; and because he has lost it in such a way that it is not possible to recover it again, this impossibility must be the cause of his sorrow ending. For although human understanding cannot be always so united with reason as to cease feeling the loss of the happiness which cannot be recovered, and must in fact give tokens of its feeling by tender tears, ardent sighs, and piteous words, under pain, should one not do this, of being counted rather brute than rational man--in a word, the course of time cures this sorrowing, reason softens it, and new events have a great share in blotting it from memory. All this is the contrary in absence, as Crisio well pointed out in his verses, for, as in the absent one, hope is so united to desire, the postponement of return gives him terrible distress; seeing that, as nothing hinders him from enjoying his happiness except some arm of the sea, or some stretch of land, it seems to him, having the chief thing, which is the good-will of the beloved person, that flagrant wrong is done to his bliss, in that things so trivial as a little water or land should hinder his happiness and glory. To this pain are also joined the fear of being forgotten, and the changes of human hearts; and so long as absence endures, strange without a doubt is the harshness and rigour with which it treats the soul of the hapless absent one. But as it has the remedy so near, which consists in return, its torment can be borne with some ease; and if it should happen that the absence should be such that it is impossible to return to the desired presence, that impossibility comes to be the remedy, as in the case of death. As for the sorrow of which Marsilio complains, though it is, as it were, the same that I suffer, and on this account must needs have seemed to me greater than any other, I will not therefore fail to say what reason shows me, rather than that to which passion urges me. I confess that it is a terrible sorrow to love and not be loved; but 'twould be a greater to love and be loathed. And if we new lovers guided ourselves by what reason and experience teach us, we would see that every beginning in anything is difficult, and that this rule suffers no exception in the affairs of love, but rather in them is confirmed and strengthened the more; so that for the new lover to complain of the hardness of his lady's rebellious breast, goes beyond all bounds of reason. For as love is, and has to be, voluntary, and not constrained, I ought not to complain of not being loved by anyone I love, nor ought I to attach importance to the burden I impose on her, telling her that she is obliged to love me since I love her; seeing that, though the beloved person ought, in accordance with the law of nature and with fair courtesy, not to show herself ungrateful toward him who loves her well, it must not for this reason be a matter of constraint and obligation that she should respond, all in all, to her lover's desires. For if this were so, there would be a thousand importunate lovers who would gain by their solicitude what would perhaps not be due to them of right; and as love has the understanding for father, it may be that she who is well loved by me does not find in me qualities so good as to move her and incline her to love me. And so she is not obliged, as I have already said, to love me, in the same way that I shall be obliged to adore her, for I found in her what is lacking in me; and for this reason he who is disdained ought not to complain of his beloved, but of his fortune, which denied him the graces that might move his lady's understanding to love him well. And so he ought to seek, with constant services, with loving words, with not unseasonable presence, and with practised virtues, to improve and amend in himself the fault that nature caused; for this is so essential a remedy that I am ready to affirm that it will be impossible for him to fail to be loved, who, by means so fitting, shall seek to win his lady's good-will. And since this evil of disdain has with it the good of this cure, let Marsilio console himself, and pity the hapless and jealous Orfenio, in whose misfortune is enclosed the greatest that can be imagined in those of love. Oh jealousy, disturber of the tranquil peace of love! jealousy, knife of the firmest hopes! I know not what he could know of lineage who made thee child of love, since thou art so much the contrary, that, for that very reason, love would have ceased to be love, had it begotten such children. Oh jealousy, hypocrite and false thief! seeing that, in order that account may be taken of thee in the world, as soon as thou seest any spark of love born in any breast, thou seekest to mingle with it, changing thyself to its colour, and even seekest to usurp from it the lordship and dominion it has. Hence it comes that as men see thee so united with love, though by thy results thou showest that thou art not love itself, yet thou seekest to give the ignorant man to understand that thou art love's son, though in truth thou art born from a low suspicion, begotten by a vile and ill-starred fear, nurtured at the breast of false imaginings, growing up amidst vilest envies, sustained by slanders and falsehoods. And that we may see the ruin caused in loving hearts by this cursed affliction of raging jealousy, when the lover is jealous, it behoves him, with the leave of jealous lovers be it said, it behoves him, I say, to be, as he is, traitorous, cunning, truculent, slanderous, capricious, and even ill-bred; and so far extends the jealous rage that masters him, that the person he loves most is the one to whom he wishes the most ill. The jealous lover would wish that his lady were fair for him alone, and ugly for all the world; he desires that she may not have eyes to see more than he might wish, nor ears to hear, nor tongue to speak; that she may be retiring, insipid, proud and ill-mannered; and at times he even desires, oppressed by this devilish passion, that his lady should die, and that all should end. All these passions jealousy begets in the minds of jealous lovers; the opposite to the virtues which pure and simple love multiplies in true and courteous lovers, for in the breast of a good lover are enclosed discretion, valour, generosity, courtesy, and all that can make him praiseworthy in the eyes of men. At the same time the force of this cruel poison contains yet more, for there is no antidote to preserve it, counsel to avail it, friend to aid it, nor excuse to fit it; all this is contained in the jealous lover, and more--every shadow terrifies him, every trifle disturbs him, and every suspicion, false or true, undoes him. And to all this misfortune another is added, namely, the excuses that deceive him. And since there is no other medicine than excuses for the disease of jealousy, and since the jealous man suffering from it does not wish to admit them, it follows that this disease is without remedy, and should be placed before all others. And thus it is my opinion that Orfenio is the most afflicted, but not the most in love; for jealousy is not the token of much love, but of much ill-advised curiosity. And if it is a token of love, it is like fever in a sick man, for to have it is a sign of having life, but a life sick and diseased; and so the jealous lover has love, but it is love sick and ill-conditioned; and moreover to be jealous is a token of little confidence in one's own worth. And that this is true the discreet and firm lover teaches us, who, without reaching the darkness of jealousy, touches on the shadows of fear, but does not enter so far into them that they obscure the sun of his bliss; nor goes so far away from them that they relieve him from walking in solicitude and fear; for if this discreet fear should be wanting in the lover, I would count him proud and over-confident. For as a common proverb of ours says: "Who loves well, fears"; and indeed it is right that the lover should fear, lest, as the thing he loves is extremely good, or seemed to him to be so, it should seem the same to the eyes of anyone who beholds it; and for the same reason love is begotten in another who is able to disturb his love and succeeds in so doing. The good lover fears, and let him fear, the changes of time, of the new events which might offer themselves to his hurt, and lest the happy state he is enjoying may quickly end; and this fear must be so secret, that it does not come to his tongue to utter it, nor yet to his eyes to express it. And this fear produces effects so contrary to those which jealousy produces in loving breasts, that it fosters in them new desires to increase love more if they could, to strive with all solicitude that the eyes of their beloved should not see in them aught that is not worthy of praise, showing themselves generous, courteous, gallant, pure and well-bred; and as much as it is right that this virtuous fear should be praised, so much, and even more, is it fitting that jealousy should be blamed.'

The renowned Damon said this and was silent, and drew in the wake of his own opinion the opposite ones of some who had been listening to him, leaving all satisfied with the truth he had shown them with such plainness. But he would not have remained without reply, had the shepherds Orompo, Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio been present at his discourse; who, wearied by the eclogue they had recited, had gone to the house of their friend Daranio. All being thus occupied, at the moment the various dances were about to be renewed, they saw three comely shepherds entering on one side of the square, who were straightway recognised by all. They were the graceful Francenio, the frank Lauso, and the old Arsindo, who came between the two shepherds with a lovely garland of green laurel in his hands; and crossing through the square, they came to a stop where Thyrsis, Damon, Elicio, and Erastro, and all the chief shepherds were, whom they greeted with courteous words, and were received by them with no less courtesy, especially Lauso by Damon, whose old and true friend he was. Compliments having ceased, Arsindo, setting eyes on Damon and Thyrsis, began to speak in this wise:

'It is the renown of your wisdom, which extends near and far, discreet and gallant shepherds, that brings these shepherds and myself to beg you to consent to be judges of a graceful contest that has arisen between these two shepherds; and it is that, the feast being over, Francenio and Lauso, who are here, found themselves in a company of fair shepherdesses, and in order to pass without tedium the leisure hours of the day amongst them, they set on foot, amongst many other games, the one which is called 'themes.' It happened then that, the turn to propose and begin coming to one of these shepherds, fate would have it that the shepherdess at his side and on his right hand was, as he says, the treasurer of his soul's secrets, and the one who was, in the opinion of all, accounted the most discreet and most in love. Approaching then her ear, he said to her:

"Hope doth fly and will not stay."

The shepherdess, without being at a loss, went on, and, each one afterwards repeating in public what he had said to the other in secret, it was found that the shepherdess had capped the theme by saying:

"With desire to check its flight."

The acuteness of this reply was praised by those who were present; but the one to extol it most was the shepherd Lauso, and it seemed no less good to Francenio, and so each one, seeing that the theme and the reply were verses of the same measure, offered to gloss them. After having done so, each one claims that his gloss excels the other's, and to have certainty in this, they wished to make me judge of it, but, as I knew that your presence was gladdening our banks, I counselled them to come to you, to whose consuminate learning and wisdom questions of greater import might well be trusted. They have followed my opinion, and I have gladly taken the trouble to make this garland that it may be given as a prize to him whom you, shepherds, decide to have glossed the better.'

Arsindo was silent and awaited the shepherds' reply, which was to thank him for the good opinion he had of them and to offer themselves to be impartial judges in that honourable contest. With this assurance straightway Francenio once more repeated the verses and recited his gloss, which was as follows:

_Hope doth fly and will not stay, With desire to check its flight._

_GLOSS._

When to save myself I think, In the faith of love believing, Merit fails me on the brink, And the excesses of my grieving Straightway from my presence shrink; Confidence doth die away, And life's pulse doth cease to beat, Since misfortune seems to say, That, when fear pursues in heat, _Hope doth fly and will not stay_.

Yes, it flies, and from my pain With it takes away content, And the keys of this my chain For my greater punishment In my enemy's power remain; Far it rises to a height Where 'twill soon be seen no more, Far it flies, so swift and light That it is not in my power _With desire to check its flight_.

Francenio having recited his gloss, Lauso began his, which was as follows:

In the hour I saw thee first, As I viewed thy beauty rare, Straightway did I fear and thirst; Yet at last I did so fear, That I was with fear accursed; Feeble confidence straightway, When I see thee, leads astray, With it comes a coward's fear. Lest they should remain so near, _Hope doth fly and will not stay_.

Though it leaves me and doth go With so wondrous a career, Soon a miracle will show That the end of life is near, But with love it is not so. I am in a hopeless plight, Yet that I his trophy might Win, who loves but knows not why, Though I could, I would not try _With desire to check its flight_.

As Lauso ceased reciting his gloss, Arsindo said:

'Here you see declared, famous Damon and Thyrsis, the cause of the contest between these shepherds; it only remains now that you should give the garland to him whom you should decide to deserve it with better right; for Lauso and Francenio are such friends, and your award will be so just that, what shall be decided by you, they will count as right.'

'Do not think, Arsindo,' replied Thyrsis, 'that, though our intellects were of the quality you imagine them to be, the difference, if there be any, between these discreet glosses can or ought to be decided with such haste. What I can say of them, and what Damon will not seek to contradict, is that both are equally good, and that the garland should be given to the shepherdess who was the cause of so curious and praiseworthy a contest; and, if you are satisfied with this judgment, reward us for it by honouring the nuptials of our friend Daranio, gladdening them with your pleasing songs, and giving lustre to them by your honourable presence.'

The award of Thyrsis seemed good to all, the two shepherds approved it and offered to do what Thyrsis bade them. But the shepherdesses and shepherds, who knew Lauso, were astonished to see his unfettered mind entangled in the net of love, for straightway they saw, from the paleness of his countenance, the silence of his tongue, and the contest he had had with Francenio, that his will was not as free as it was wont to be, and they went wondering among themselves who the shepherdess might be who had triumphed over his free heart. One thought it was the discreet Belisa, another that it was the gay Leandra, and some that it was the peerless Arminda, being moved to think this by Lauso's usual practice to visit the huts of these shepherdesses, and because each of them was likely by her grace, worth, and beauty, to subdue other hearts as free as that of Lauso, and it was many days ere they resolved this doubt, for the love-sick shepherd scarce trusted to himself the secret of his love. This being ended, straightway all the youth of the village renewed the dances, and the rustic instruments made pleasing music. But seeing that the sun was already hastening his course towards the setting, the concerted voices ceased, and all who were there determined to escort the bridal pair to their house. And the aged Arsindo, in order to fulfil what he had promised to Thyrsis, in the space there was between the square and Daranio's house, to the sound of Erastro's pipe went singing these verses:

ARSINDO. Now let Heaven tokens show Of rejoicing and of mirth On so fortunate a day, 'Midst the joy of all below Let all peoples on the earth Celebrate this wedding gay. From to-day let all their mourning Into joyous song be turning, And in place of grief and pain Pleasures let the myriads gain, From their hearts all sorrow spurning.

Let prosperity abound With the happy bridal-pair, Who were for each other made, On their elms may pears be found, In their oak-groves cherries rare, Sloes amid the myrtle glade, Pearls upon the rocky steep. May they grapes from mastic reap, Apples from the carob-tree. May their sheepfolds larger be, And no wolves attack their sheep.

May their ewes that barren were, Fruitful prove, and may they double By their fruitfulness their flock. May the busy bees prepare 'Midst the threshing floor and stubble, Of sweet honey plenteous stock. May they ever find their seed, In the town and in the mead, Plucked at fitting time and hour, May no grub their vines devour, And their wheat no blighting weed.

In good time with children twain, Perfect fruit of peace and love, May the happy pair be blest. And when manhood they attain, May the one a doctor prove, And the other a parish priest. May they ever take the lead In both wealth and goodly deed. Thus they gentlemen will be, If they give security For no gauger full of greed.

May they live for longer years E'en than Sarah, hale and strong, And the sorrowing doctor shun. May they shed no bitter tears For a daughter wedded wrong, For a gambling spendthrift son. May their death be, when the twain Shall Methusaleh's years attain, Free from guilty fear; the date May the people celebrate For ever and aye, Amen.

With the greatest pleasure Arsindo's rude verses were listened to, and he would have gone on further with them, had not their arrival at Daranio's house hindered it. The latter, inviting all who came with him, remained there, save that Galatea and Florisa, through fear lest Teolinda should be recognised by Thyrsis and Damon, would not remain at the wedding banquet. Elicio and Erastro would fain have accompanied Galatea to her house, but it was not possible for her to consent to it, and so they had to remain with their friends, and the shepherdesses, wearied with the dances of that day, departed. And Teolinda felt more pain than ever, seeing that at Daranio's solemn nuptials, where so many shepherds had assisted, only her Artidoro was wanting. With this painful thought she passed that night in company with Galatea and Florisa, who passed it with hearts more free and more dispassionate, until on the new day to come there happened to them what will be told in the book which follows.

BOOK IV.

With great desire the fair Teolinda awaited the coming day to take leave of Galatea and Florisa and to finish searching by all the banks of the Tagus for her dear Artidoro, intending to end her life in sad and bitter solitude, if she were so poor in fortune as to learn no news of her beloved shepherd. The wished-for hour, then, having come, when the sun was beginning to spread his rays over the earth, she arose, and, with tears in her eyes, asked leave of the two shepherdesses to prosecute her quest. They with many reasonings urged her to wait some days more in their company, Galatea offering to her to send one of her father's shepherds to search for Artidoro by all the banks of the Tagus, and wherever it might be thought he could be found. Teolinda thanked her for her offers, but would not do what they asked of her, nay rather, after having shown in the best words she could the obligation in which she lay to cherish all the days of her life the favours she had received from them, she embraced them with tender feeling and begged them not to detain her a single hour. Then Galatea and Florisa, seeing how vainly they wrought in thinking to detain her, charged her to try to inform them of any incident, good or bad, that might befall her in that loving quest, assuring her of the pleasure they would feel at her happiness, and of their pain at her misery. Teolinda offered to be herself the one to bring the tidings of her good fortune, since, if they were bad, life would not have patience to endure them, and so it would be superfluous to learn them from her. With this promise of Teolinda Galatea and Florisa were content, and they determined to accompany her some distance from the place. And so, the two only taking their crooks, and having furnished Teolinda's wallet with some victuals for the toilsome journey, they went forth with her from the village at a time when the sun's rays were already beginning to strike the earth more directly and with greater force. And having accompanied her almost half a league from the place, at the moment they were intending to return and leave her, they saw four men on horseback and some on foot crossing by some broken ground which lay a little off their way. At once they recognised them to be hunters by their attire and by the hawks and dogs they had with them, and whilst they were looking at them with attention to see if they knew them, they saw two shepherdesses of gallant bearing and spirit come out from among some thick bushes which were near the broken ground; they had their faces muffled with two white linen kerchiefs, and one of them, raising her voice, asked the hunters to stop, which they did; and both coming up to one of them, who from his bearing and figure seemed the chief of all, seized the reins of his horse and stood awhile talking with him without the three shepherdesses being able to hear a word of what they said, because of the distance from the spot which prevented it. They only saw that after they had talked with him a little while, the horseman dismounted, and having, as far as could be judged, bidden those who accompanied him to return, only a boy remaining with his horse, he took the two shepherdesses by the hands and gradually began to enter with them into a thick wood that was there. The three shepherdesses, Galatea, Florisa, and Teolinda, seeing this, determined to see, if they could, who the masked shepherdesses, and the horseman who escorted them were. And so they agreed to go round by a part of the wood, and see if they could place themselves in some part which might be such as to satisfy them in what they desired. And acting in the manner they had intended, they overtook the horseman and the shepherdesses, and Galatea, watching through the branches what they were doing, saw that they turned to the right and plunged into the thickest part of the wood; and straightway they followed them in their very footsteps until the horseman and the shepherdesses, thinking they were well within the wood, halted in the middle of a narrow little meadow which was surrounded by countless thickets of bramble. Galatea and her companions came so near that without being seen or perceived, they saw all the horseman and the shepherdesses did and said; and when the latter had looked on all sides to see if they could be seen by anyone, and were assured on this point, one removed her veil, and scarcely had she done so when she was recognised by Teolinda, who, approaching Galatea's ear, said to her in as low a voice as she could:

'This is a very strange adventure; for, unless it be that I have lost my understanding from the grief I suffer, without any doubt that shepherdess who has removed her veil, is the fair Rosaura, daughter of Roselio, lord of a village near ours, and I know not what can be the reason that has moved her to adopt so strange a garb and to leave her district,--things which speak so much to the detriment of her honour. But, alas, hapless one!' added Teolinda, 'for the horseman who is with her is Grisaldo, eldest son of rich Laurencio, who owns two villages close to this of yours.'

'You speak truth, Teolinda,' replied Galatea, 'for I know him; but be silent and keep quiet, for we shall soon see the purpose of his coming here.'

Thereat Teolinda was still, and set herself attentively to watch what Rosaura was doing. She, going up to the horseman, who seemed about twenty years old, began to say to him with troubled voice and angry countenance:

'We are in a spot, faithless man, where I may take the wished for vengeance for your lack of love and your neglect. But though I took it on you in such a way that it would cost you your life, it were little recompense for the wrong you have done me. Here am I, unrecognised so as to recognise you, Grisaldo, who failed to recognise my love; here is one who changed her garb to seek for you, she who never changed her will to love you. Consider, ungrateful and loveless one, that she who in her own house and amongst her servants scarce could move a step, now for your sake goes from vale to vale, and from ridge to ridge, amidst such loneliness seeking your companionship.'

To all these words the fair Rosaura was uttering, the horseman listened with his eyes fixed on the ground, and making lines on the earth with the point of a hunting knife he held in his hand. But Rosaura, not content with what she had said, pursued her discourse with words such as these:

'Tell me, do you know peradventure, do you know, Grisaldo, that I am she who not long ago dried your tears, stayed your sighs, healed your pains, and above all, she who believed your words? or perchance do you understand that you are he who thought all the oaths that could be imagined feeble and of no strength to assure me of the truth with which you deceived me? Are you by chance, Grisaldo, he whose countless tears softened the hardness of my pure heart? It is you, for indeed I see you, and it is I, for indeed I know myself. But if you are the Grisaldo of my belief, and I am Rosaura, as you think her to be, fulfil to me the word you gave me, and I will give you the promise I have never denied you. They have told me that you are marrying Leopersia, Marcelio's daughter, so gladly that it is actually you who are wooing her; if this news has caused me sorrow, can well be seen by what I have done in coming to prevent its fulfilment, and if you can confirm it, I leave the matter to your conscience. What do you reply to this, mortal enemy of my peace? Do you admit perchance, by your silence, that which it were right should not pass even through your thought. Now raise your eyes and set them on those that beheld you to their hurt; lift them and behold her whom you are deceiving, whom you are abandoning and forgetting. You will see, if you ponder it well, that you are deceiving her who always spoke truth to you, you are abandoning her who has abandoned her honour and herself to follow you, you are forgetting her who never banished you from her memory. Consider, Grisaldo, that in birth I am your equal, that in wealth I am not your inferior, and that I excel you in goodness of heart and in firmness of faith. Fulfil to me, sir, the faith you gave me, if you are proud to be a gentleman, and are not ashamed to be a Christian. Behold, if you do not respond to what you owe me, I will pray Heaven to punish you, fire to burn you, air to fail you, water to drown you, earth not to endure you, and my kinsmen to avenge me! Behold, if you fail in your duty towards me, you will have in me a perpetual disturber of your joys so long as my life shall last, and even after I am dead, if it may be, I shall with constant shadows affright your faithless spirit, and with frightful visions torment your deceiving eyes! Mark that I but ask what is my own, and that by giving it you gain what you lose by refusing it! Now move your tongue to undeceive me for the many times you have moved it to wound me!'

Saying this, the fair lady was silent, and for a short while was waiting to see what Grisaldo replied. He, raising his face, which up till then he had kept down, crimsoned with the shame Rosaura's words had caused in him, with calm voice replied to her in this wise:

'If I sought to deny, oh Rosaura, that I am your debtor in more than what you say, I would likewise deny that the sunlight is bright, and would even say that fire is cold and air solid. So that herein I confess what I owe you, and am obliged to pay it; but for me to confess that I can pay you as you wish is impossible, for my father's command has forbidden it, and your cruel disdain has rendered it impossible. Nor do I wish to call any other witness to this truth than yourself, as one who knows so well how many times and with what tears I begged you to accept me as your husband, and to deign to permit me to fulfil the word I had given you to be it. And you, for the reasons you fancied, or because you thought it was well to respond to Artandro's vain promises, never wished matters to come to such an issue; but rather went on from day to day putting me off, and making trials of my firmness, though you could make sure of it in every way by accepting me for your own. You also know, Rosaura, the desire my father had to settle me in life, and the haste he showed in the matter, bringing forward the rich and honourable marriages you know of, and how I with a thousand excuses held aloof from his importunities, always telling you of them, so that you should no longer defer what suited you so well and what I desired; and that after all this I told you one day that my father's wish was for me to marry Leopersia, and you, on hearing Leopersia's name, in a desperate rage told me to speak to you no more, and that I might marry Leopersia with your blessing, or anyone I liked better. You know also that I urged you many times to cease those jealous frenzies, for I was yours and not Leopersia's, and that you would never receive my excuses, nor yield to my prayers, but rather, persevering in your obstinacy and hardness, and in favouring Artandro, you sent to tell me that it would give you pleasure that I should never see you more. I did what you bade me, and, so as to have no opportunity to transgress your bidding, seeing also that I was fulfilling that of my father, I resolved to marry Leopersia, or at least I shall marry her to-morrow, for so it is agreed between her kinsmen and mine; wherefore you see, Rosaura, how guiltless I am of the charge you lay against me, and how late you have come to know the injustice with which you treated me. But that you may not judge me henceforward to be as ungrateful as you have pictured me in your fancy, see if there is anything wherein I can satisfy your wish, for, so it be not to marry you, I will hazard, to serve you, property, life and honour.'

While Grisaldo was saying these words, the fair Rosaura kept her eyes riveted on his face, shedding through them so many tears that they showed full well the grief she felt in her soul. But, seeing that Grisaldo was silent, heaving a deep and woful sigh, she said to him:

'As it cannot be, oh Grisaldo, that your green years should have a long and skilled experience of the countless accidents of love, I do not wonder that a little disdain of mine has placed you in the freedom you boast of; but if you knew that jealous fears are the spurs which make love quicken his pace, you would see clearly that those I had about Leopersia, redounded to make me love you more. But as you made such sport of my affairs, on the slightest pretext that you could conceive, you revealed the little love in your breast, and confirmed my true suspicions; and in such a way that tells me you are marrying Leopersia to-morrow. But I assure you, before you bear her to the marriage-couch, you must bear me to the tomb, unless, indeed, you are so cruel as to refuse to give one to the dead body of her over whose soul you were always absolute lord. And, that you may know clearly and see that she who lost for you her modesty, and exposed her honour to harm, will count it little to lose her life, this sharp poniard which here I hold will accomplish my desperate and honourable purpose, and will be a witness of the cruelty you hold in that false breast of yours.'

And saying this she drew from her bosom a naked dagger, and with great haste was going to plunge it in her heart, had not Grisaldo with greater speed seized her arm, and had not the veiled shepherdess, her companion, hurried to close with her. Grisaldo and the shepherdess were a long while before they took the dagger from the hands of Rosaura, who said to Grisaldo:

'Permit me, traitorous foe, to end at once the tragedy of my life, without your loveless disdain making me experience death so often.'

'You shall not taste of death on my account,' replied Grisaldo, 'since I would rather that my father should fail in the word he has given to Leopersia on my behalf, than that I should fail at all in what I know I owe you. Calm your breast, Rosaura, since I assure you that this breast of mine can desire naught save what may be to your happiness.'

At these loving words of Grisaldo, Rosaura awakened from the death of her sorrow to the life of her joy, and, without ceasing to weep, knelt down before Grisaldo, begging for his hands in token of the favour he did her. Grisaldo did the same, and threw his arms round her neck; for a long while they remained without power to say a word one to the other, both shedding many loving tears. The veiled shepherdess, seeing her companion's happy fortune, wearied by the fatigue she had sustained in helping to take the dagger from Rosaura, being unable to bear her veil any longer, took it off, disclosing a face so like Teolinda's, that Galatea and Florisa were amazed to see it. But Teolinda was more so, since, without being able to conceal it, she raised her voice, saying:

'Oh Heavens, and what is it that I see? Is not this by chance my sister Leonarda, the disturber of my repose? She it is without a doubt.'

And, without further delay, she came out from where she was, and with her Galatea and Florisa; and as the other shepherdess saw Teolinda, straightway she recognised her, and with open arms they ran one to the other, wondering to have found each other in such a place, and at such a time and juncture. Then Grisaldo and Rosaura, seeing what Leonarda was doing with Teolinda, and that they had been discovered by the shepherdesses Galatea and Florisa, arose, with no small shame that they had been found by them in that fashion, and, drying their tears, with reserve and courtesy received the shepherdesses, who were at once recognised by Grisaldo. But the discreet Galatea, in order to change into confidence the displeasure that perchance the two loving shepherds had felt at seeing her, said to them with that grace, with which she said everything:

'Be not troubled by our coming, happy Grisaldo and Rosaura, for it will merely serve to increase your joy, since it has been shared with one who will always have joy in serving you. Our fortune has ordained that we should see you, and in a part where no part of your thoughts has been concealed from us, and since Heaven has brought them to so happy a pass, in satisfaction thereof calm your breasts and pardon our boldness.'

'Never has your presence, fair Galatea,' replied Grisaldo, 'failed to give pleasure wherever it might be; and this truth being so well known, we are rather under an obligation at sight of you, than annoyed at your coming.'

With these there passed some other courteous words, far different from those that passed between Leonarda and Teolinda, who, after having embraced once and yet again, with tender words, mingled with loving tears, demanded the story of each other's adventures, filling all those that were there with amazement at seeing them, for they resembled each other so closely, that they could almost be called not alike, but one and the same; and had it not been that Teolinda's dress was different from Leonarda's, without a doubt Galatea and Florisa could not have distinguished them; and then they saw with what reason Artidoro had been deceived in thinking that Leonarda was Teolinda. But when Florisa saw that the sun was about midway in the sky, and that it would be well to seek some shade to protect them from its rays, or at least to return to the village, since, as the opportunity failed them to pasture their sheep, they ought not to be so long in the meadow, she said to Teolinda and Leonarda:

'There will be time, shepherdesses, when with greater ease you can satisfy our desires, and give us a longer account of your thoughts, and for the present let us seek where we may spend the rigour of the noon-tide heat that threatens us, either by a fresh spring that is at the outlet of the valley we are leaving behind, or in returning to the village, where Leonarda will be treated with the kindness which you, Teolinda, have experienced from Galatea and myself. And if I make this offer only to you, shepherdesses, it is not because I forget Grisaldo and Rosaura, but because it seems to me that I cannot offer to their worth and deserving more than good-will.'

'This shall not be wanting in me as long as life shall last,' replied Grisaldo, 'the will to do, shepherdess, what may be to your service, since the kindness you show us cannot be paid with less; but since it appears to me that it will be well to do what you say, and because I have learnt that you are not ignorant of what has passed between me and Rosaura, I do not wish to waste your time or mine in referring to it, I only ask you to be kind enough to take Rosaura in your company to your village, whilst I prepare in mine some things which are necessary to fulfil what our hearts desire; and in order that Rosaura may be free from suspicion, and may never cherish suspicion of the good faith of my intentions, with deliberate will on my part, you being witnesses thereof, I give her my hand to be her true husband.'

And, saying this, he stretched out his hand, and took fair Rosaura's, and she was so beside herself to see what Grisaldo did, that she scarce could answer him a word, only she allowed him to take her hand, and a little while after said:

'Love had brought me, Grisaldo, my lord, to such a pass, that, with less than you have done for me, I would remain for ever your debtor; but since you have wished to have regard rather for what you yourself are, than for my deserving, I shall do what in me lies, which is to give you my soul anew in recompense for this favour, and may Heaven give you the reward for so welcome a kindness.'

'No more, no more, my friends,' said Galatea at this moment, 'for where deeds are so true, excessive compliments must find no place. What remains is to pray Heaven to lead to a happy issue these beginnings, and that you may enjoy your love in a long and beneficent peace. And as for what you say, Grisaldo, that Rosaura should come to our village, the favour you do us therein is so great, that we ourselves beg it of you.'

'So gladly will I go in your company,' said Rosaura, 'that I know not how to enhance it more than by telling you that I will not much regret Grisaldo's absence, when I am in your company.'

'Then come,' said Florisa, 'for the village is far away, and the sun strong, and our delay in returning there conspicuous. You, señor Grisaldo, can go and do what you wish, for in Galatea's house you will find Rosaura, and these, or rather this one shepherdess, for being so much alike, they ought not to be called two.'

'Be it as you wish,' said Grisaldo; and, he taking Rosaura by the hand, they all went from the wood, having agreed among themselves that Grisaldo should on the morrow send a shepherd, from the many his father had, to tell Rosaura what she was to do, and that this shepherd, when sent, might be able to speak to Galatea or to Florisa without being observed, and give the instructions that suited best. This agreement seemed good to all, and, having come out from the wood, Grisaldo saw that his servant was waiting for him with the horse, and embracing Rosaura anew, and taking leave of the shepherdesses, he went away accompanied with tears and by Rosaura's eyes, which never left him until they lost him from sight. As the shepherdesses were left alone, straightway Teolinda went away with Leonarda, in the desire to learn the cause of her coming. And Rosaura, too, as she went, related to Galatea and to Florisa the occasion that had moved her to take a shepherdess's dress, and to come to look for Grisaldo, saying:

'It would not cause you wonder, fair shepherdesses, to see me in this dress, if you knew how far love's mighty power extends, which makes those who love well change not only their garb, but will and soul, in the way that is most to its taste, and I had lost my love for ever, had I not availed myself of the artifice of this dress. For you must know, my friends, that, as I was in Leonarda's village, of which my father is the lord, Grisaldo came to it with the intention of being there some days, engaged in the pleasing pastime of the chase; and as my father was a great friend of his father, he arranged to receive him in the house, and to offer him all the hospitality that he could. This he did; and Grisaldo's coming to my house resulted in driving me from it; for indeed, though it be at the cost of my shame, I must tell you that the sight, the converse, and the worth of Grisaldo made such an impression on my soul, that, without knowing how, when he had been there a few days, I came to be quite beside myself, and neither wished nor was able to exist without making him master of my freedom. However, it was not so heedlessly but that I was first satisfied that Grisaldo's wish did not differ in any way from mine, as he gave me to understand with many very true tokens. I then, being convinced of this truth, and seeing how well it pleased me to have Grisaldo for husband, came to acquiesce in his desires, and to put mine into effect; and so, by the mediation of a handmaiden of mine, Grisaldo and I saw each other many times in a secluded corridor, without our being alone extending further than for us to see each other, and for him to give me the word, which to-day he has given me again with more force in your presence. My sad fortune then decreed, that at the time I was enjoying so sweet a state, there came also to visit my father a valiant gentleman from Aragón, who was called Artandro; he being overcome, according to what he showed, by my beauty, if I have any, sought with the greatest solicitude that I should marry him without my father knowing it. Meanwhile Grisaldo had sought to carry out his purpose, and I, showing myself somewhat harsher than was necessary, kept putting him off with words, with the intention that my father should set about marrying me, and that then Grisaldo should seek me for his wife; but he did not wish to do this, since he was aware that his father's wish was to marry him to the rich and beauteous Leopersia, for you must know her well by the report of her riches and beauty. This came to my knowledge, and I took the opportunity to try to make him jealous of me, though feignedly, merely to make trial of the sincerity of his faith; and I was so careless, or rather so simple, that thinking I gained something thereby, I began to show some favours to Artandro. Grisaldo, seeing this, often declared to me the pain he felt at my dealings with Artandro, and he even informed me that if it was not my wish that he should fulfil to me the word he had given me, he could not fail to obey the wish of his parents. To all these words of warning and advice I replied unadvisedly, full of pride and arrogance, confident that the bonds which my beauty had cast over Grisaldo's soul could not be so easily broken, or even touched, by any other beauty. But my confidence turned out to be much mistaken, as Grisaldo soon showed me, who, wearied of my foolish and scornful disdain, saw fit to leave me and to obey his father's behest. But scarcely had he gone from my village and left my presence, when I recognised the error into which I had fallen, and with such force did Grisaldo's absence and jealousy of Leopersia begin to torment me that his absence overwhelmed me and jealousy of her consumed me. Considering then, that, if my remedy were deferred, I must leave my life in the hands of grief, I resolved to risk losing the lesser, which in my opinion was reputation, in order to gain the greater, which is Grisaldo. And so, on the pretext I gave my father, of going to see an aunt of mine, the mistress of another village near ours, I left my home, accompanied by many of my father's servants, and when I reached my aunt's house, I disclosed to her all my secret thoughts, and asked her to be kind enough to allow me to put on this dress and come to speak to Grisaldo, assuring her that if I did not come myself, my affairs would have a poor issue. She consented to this on condition that I took with me Leonarda, as one in whom she had much confidence. I sent for her to our village and procured this garb, and, bearing in mind some things which we two had to do, we took leave of her eight days ago; and, though we came to Grisaldo's village six days ago, we have never been able to find an opportunity of speaking to him alone, as I desired, until this morning, when I knew he was going to the chase. I awaited him in the same place where he took leave of us, and there has passed between us what you, friends, have seen, at which happy issue I am as happy as it is right she should be who desired it so much. This, shepherdesses, is the story of my life, and if I have wearied you in telling it you, throw the blame on the desire you had to know it, and on mine which could not do less than satisfy you.'

'Nay, rather,' replied Florisa, 'we are so grateful for the favour you have done us, that, though we may always busy ourselves in your service we shall not escape from the debt.'

'I am the one who remains in debt,' answered Rosaura, 'and who will seek to repay it as my powers may allow. But, leaving this aside, turn your eyes, shepherdesses, and you will see those of Teolinda and Leonarda so full of tears that they will move yours without fail to accompany them therein.'

Galatea and Florisa turned to look at them, and saw that what Rosaura said was true. What caused the weeping of the two sisters was that after Leonarda had told her sister all that Rosaura had related to Galatea and Florisa, she said to her:

'You must know, sister, that, as you were missing from our village, it was thought that the shepherd Artidoro had taken you away, for that same day he too was missing without taking leave of anyone. I confirmed this opinion in my parents, because I told them what had passed with Artidoro in the forest. With this evidence the suspicion increased, and my father determined to go in search of you and of Artidoro, and in fact would have done so had not there come to our village two days afterwards a shepherd whom all took for Artidoro when they saw him. When the news reached my father that your ravisher was there, straightway he came with the constables to where the shepherd was, and they asked him if he knew you or where he had taken you to. The shepherd denied on oath that he had ever seen you in all his life,